


a bright infinite future

by thebisfor



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, Angst and Humor, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Politics, Slow Build, Snark, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, West Wing AU, author is liberal commie scum, everyone is a democrat, except Rochefort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2016-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-24 09:28:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4914187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebisfor/pseuds/thebisfor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a west wing au.</p><p>bringing Anne Bourbon into the office of the Presidency is no easy task; neither is keeping her there.</p><p>present for dezlet and hawkelf. why am I doing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a civic sacrament

"In this world of sin and sorrow there is always something to be thankful for; as for me, I rejoice that I am not a Republican."

H. L. Mencken

 

Porthos clenched and unclenched his fists. The last place he wanted to be right now was in this uncomfortable, fancy looking leather chair, trying to kill the urge to leap over the shiny antique oak table and wring Rochefort’s smug, “moderate” little neck. 

 

“It’s suicide to bring up welfare at this point.” He was saying. Smugly. Like an ass. “We don’t want to make promises before the race even truly begins, especially ones we don’t intend to keep.” The little conservative snake was examining his nails idly, ever so calm and composed. 

 

Porthos was sure there was steam coming out of his ears. 

 

“There are people depending on us to defend them.” He growled. “Good people, whom the Republican party has failed.” 

 

Rochefort rolled his eyes. “That’s your problem, Porthos. You’re too emotional. There’s an entire White House to win, and many of your voters are in fact Republicans who hope to be swayed. One cannot win the election on the backs of handout recipients. They don’t vote anyway.”

 

“I sure as hell do.” Porthos snarled. “The woman who broke her back raisin’ me and a houseful of other foster kids, depending on those handouts to feed an’ clothe us, she never missed a damn election. Not even a little local council dispute.” 

 

“A precious anecdote.” Rochefort smiled, his slimy, reptilian eyes cold. “But it will not win over a heavily taxed, overburdened, and tired middle class. They don’t want to foot the bill any longer.:” 

 

Porthos was moments from seeing red. He’d regretted being a part of this ever since Rochefort wormed his way across party lines and onto Richelieu’s election campaign. He couldn't stomach the little bastard's soundbytes and party bullshit, and was shocked that the rest of the room just seemed to nod along, smiling emptily, like the man wasn't spouting the worst kind of baseless crap they'd ever heard. It was worst coming from the senator, who always seemed to simply soak in the other man's words quietly and without contradiction. 

 

“Do try not to fight, boys.” The man himself murmured, his fingers steepled and his sharp eyes darting from one of them to the other, measuring Porthos’ growing anger and Rochefort’s smug ease.”It won’t be settled today.” 

 

Porthos felt deflated, glancing over at the older senator. 

 

“I’ll get to the issue later on, Porthos. At the same time when women’s lib starts to matter.” He sounded bored, offhand. As if both of the issues were entirely dismissible. 

 

Porthos huffed. He considered telling the Senator that no one actually called it that anymore, but restrained himself. “Those things matter now, Senator. We can’t stick to courting almost-conservatives forever. They got a camp set up already, and whatever your pet Republican - “ Rochefort snorted. “- tells you, it ain’t anywhere near our side. We need the staunch liberals, the crazy young radical kids, the people trying’ to make a difference. All the people who’re disillusioned with this moderate bullshit.” 

 

“Yes, you’ll win five whole votes that way.” Rochefort chuckled. “Well done.”

 

Porthos stood up, abrupt, his temper flaring up finally. His closest neighbor put a careful hand on his arm, looking concerned. Not that the man had the balls to speak up, either. Porthos didn't even remember the little shit's name, and here he was, thinking he could hold Porthos back. He shook the hand off of his arm with a look of disgust.

 

“Take a walk, Porthos.” Richelieu snapped, his cunning eyes staring Porthos down from his relaxed seat. Porthos reigned himself in, resettling his skin. He wouldn't make any headway with his stiff-necked boss like this; that was easy enough to see.

 

Porthos took a moment to lock eyes with Rochefort, angry energy brimming out of him. They’d been spoiling for a fight for weeks now - Porthos could feel it, just around the corner. His chest was heaving with the effort to restrain himself. This wasn’t the place for fists. Rochefort was smirking, smug as a cat, but he was the first to look away from Porthos’ hard, furious gaze. Porthos snatched up his suit jacket and left the room, his tread heavy and betrayed. He could hear the conversation start up again after him, now that the distraction of his opinion had left the room.

 

He welcomed the hot breeze outside, the sweltering July air. It ruffled his tight curls, which had been growing out again. He'd let his goatee go as well; he felt rumpled in body and in spirit, after these last few months. His broad shoulders slumped a little, and he leant on the cool stone of the outside of the capitol building. New York in the summer had never suited him. He should cut his hair again; trim his beard. He knew what Rochefort saw when he looked at him, the slimy little eel. Undereducated, black, he grew up poor and did his turn with the Army; nothing like the other Ivy League silver spoons who decorated Richelieu’s round table. Rochefort expected a bad temper from him; expected his rough accent, never lost from his move up from Georgia. Expected a lack of intelligence, a passion that took things personally and was prone to irrationality. The man wanted him to get emotional, to trip over his words. Little snake. Porthos wished he could step on him and silence his lying little mouth. 

 

“You look about ready to deck someone.”

 

Porthos looked up, surprised. “Captain. You didn’t tell me you were in town.”

 

Captain John Treville stood easily not ten feet away, and smiled with warmth at Porthos. “Thought I’d surprise you. See how the campaign is going. Not so well, I take it.”

 

Porthos sighed. It was Treville that had encouraged him to take this job. He’d said that Porthos would be wasted in career military, especially after his blown knee had sent him to permanent desk work. Porthos had agreed with him then, wanted to go somewhere where he could continue making a difference - helping people. Something to make up for the horrors he’d already lived through. At least, that was what John had told him some six months ago when Porthos had been stewing with a torn ACL and a law degree gathering dust, wondering what to do with himself if he wasn't going to make Captain like his old mentor and father figure unless it was from behind a desk. He'd been recommended personally to Richelieu by the old man - the two apparently had a friendly rivalry spanning decades, often a little light on the friendliness. 

 

“To be honest, I don’t know if I know what I’m doin’ here. Nobody’s listening to me, that’s for sure.” He scrubbed his face roughly with the palms of his hands. He hadn't meant to lose hope - had thought this post would be a godsend. He'd make his mama proud. At least, that had been the plan.

 

Treville studied him for a moment, face grim. “I should apologize to you.” He sighed. 

 

Porthos looked over at him, brow furrowed in puzzlement. 

 

“You’re wasted on Armand.” Treville clarified. “The man doesn’t deserve you, and I should have seen that.” 

 

“He’s got a good shot.” Porthos countered, weary. “He could really go the distance here.” Porthos even meant it. The man was a great politician. He knew what to say and how to say it to get the attention of the majority of the people. He was just..a politician. Porthos had been hoping for something more.

 

“I’m not denying that.” Treville agreed. 

 

Porthos examined his old mentor’s face, the crags and lines still familiar. “But?” he prompted, well practiced at seeing when the other man had more to say that he wasn’t telling Porthos. Fifteen years together had made that easy. The man had been almost like a father to Porthos at times when he'd badly needed paternal guidance, but Porthos had never let himself be caught in one of Treville's little half-truths, the subject of more than a few squabbles between the two men. 

 

“Do you want him to win?” Treville looked at him, raising his eyebrows. He was the picture of innocent curiosity, and Porthos didn’t appreciate the question. 

 

He heaved a sigh and straightened his back, pacing a little outside the huge double doors. He jammed his hands in his pockets, nice new jacket left idly on the ground. Treville watched him, composed and quiet in comparison to Porthos’ agitated energy. 

 

“I don’t know.” Porthos admitted finally. “Thought I could live with it. What choice have I got?” 

 

Treville stood straighter, reaching over and stopping Porthos’ constant movement with a hand on his shoulder. Porthos looked at him, confused.

 

“Come to a talk tomorrow in Bridgeport.” He looked serious.

 

Porthos’ confusion only increased. “The fuck would I go to a talk in Bridgeport for?”

 

“To have another choice.” Treville smiled enigmatically. 

 

Porthos huffed. “You know I hate it when you get all mysterious. Have my whole life, don’t like it any better now.” Yet another subject of many arguments and fights over the years.

 

Treville chuckled. “I like surprising you, though. I swear, I’ve got someone worth seeing.” 

 

“If they’re worth seeing, why haven’t I heard of them yet? Richelieu’s polling at near sixty percent, Treville. That’s a hell of a lead. Who else is there, Savoy? He’s behind forty points.” Porthos wasn't fond of the congressman, either. A war hero, certainly, but with nowhere near half the intelligence of Richelieu. He appealed to the hawks and the fearful, people who wanted someone battle scarred, and unintellectual. Porthos was sure they had more things in common than he did with the Senator, but they weren't the nice things. 

 

“Not Savoy.” Treville slid his own hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. “Someone else. We’re still getting off the ground. It’ll be worth your time, I promise.” 

 

Porthos sighed once more. “I dunno, I got a pretty full schedule, boss.” The old nickname rolled easily off the tongue. Despite their squabbles, Treville's presence usually seemed all that was necessary to put Porthos at ease, and this time was no exception. 

 

“For me, Porthos, please.” Treville said firmly. "If ever in our friendship I have truly helped you, help me now."

 

Well, that was hardly fair. Treville was as much a part of his family as the woman who'd raised him. He'd dragged his ass out of juvenile detention and showed him that he could do better. Showed him that he was so much better than the eight by ten room that most of the country wanted him to spend his life in. 

 

“Why does it never actually sound like you’re asking?” Porthos grumbled. “I’ll try to be there.” 

 

Treville clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, my friend. You won’t regret it, I promise you.” 

 

Porthos nodded, and swept Treville into a crushing hug. The older man wheezed a little, patting his young friend’s back. 

 

“I’ve got to get back, Porthos, let go.” He chuckled. 

 

Porthos released him reluctantly. Treville’s face was the first friendly one he’d seen in weeks. He wasn’t enthusiastic about seeing him disappear again. “I’ve got to get back, too.”

 

He wasn’t sure how long he could keep this up. That room was the last place he wanted to be right now.

 

“Try not to punch that smug little lapdog of his, either.” Treville grinned knowingly. Porthos grumbled. 

 

They parted ways, Treville sliding into a cab with his usual careless ease. Porthos picked up his jacket and dusted it off, starting the slow, arduous walk back inside to the Senator’s office. He considered his overwhelming aversion to going back into that room. He was going to haul off and deck Anthony Rochefort one of these days, even Treville knew it. If it wasn’t over welfare, it would be for social security, veteran’s aid, voting rights - 

 

Porthos wondered if he was too personally connected for this job. He couldn’t force himself to be objective, he just couldn’t. Not when he could put a name and a face to each issue, and see those that were hurt by cuts in public funding, people who were shut out of healthcare or lost their jobs when the government said it wasn’t their business or god forbid that it fell under the idea of religious freedom - wasn’t government meant to be for the people? All of them, even the poor, the marginalized, the discriminated against? 

 

The first thing he did, before returning to their meeting, was to clear his schedule for the next evening. He had a speech to go to. 


	2. diametrically opposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> athos has drinks, considers how he's ruining his life, considers how he may be ruining anne's.

You begin saving the world by saving one man at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics.

Charles Bukowski

 

 

 

 

“I fucking hate this job.” Athos stared into the deep burgundy of whatever shitty table red the nice - but not too nice - bar kept around for sad, displaced, divorcee French fucks. It was shit, but it was drinkable, and he’d had three or four glasses already and was well on his way past tipsy and closing in on the point where he would be embarrassing at the event tonight. 

 

“You work for that Senator Richelieu?” The aging bar-fly who was the only other one in the building seemed to ask in his general direction. She’d been here all night with him, sipping her gin martini and watching him grow ever more inebriated. They’d talked, the conversation silted and awkward. She had been a wife and mother once; now she managed the gas station down the street. He’d told her he worked in politics - not much more than that. 

 

Athos blinked at his glass, processing the question, before tilting it back against his lips and draining it in a few slow, smooth swallows. “No.”

 

She eyed him with a surprising amount of calculation in her swimming, muddy eyes. “You a republican, then?”

 

Athos couldn’t tell if she thought that was worse, or better. Wasn’t that just completely indicative of the world and its failures. 

 

“No.” he sighed, motioning for another glass.

 

She narrowed her eyes. Bad, then, maybe. Athos spared a thought for Washington’s old battlecries against political partisanship. He wondered if he’d laugh or weep to see America today. Of course, Washington had been a slave-owning rich racist fuck, so in the end, what did it matter? 

 

“Thought you said you were some presidential campaign whack job.” 

 

He hummed quietly, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Presidential Campaign Whackjob. He wondered if he could get that on a business card. “I am.” 

 

She continued staring at him. He assumed the smile didn’t help, and smoothed it back out, sipping at his refilled wine glass. “Well, who you work for? And what’s with that accent? You don’t sound American.” 

 

Athos sighed, swirling his glass again. “I work for Anne Bourbon. And I have dual citizenship, thank you.” He felt like a pretentious fuck. For the wine, for this conversation, for the job he didn’t deserve to have. For sipping wine and getting drunk instead of trying to rein in Anne’s fiery policy opinions before her big speech. Her big speech in the basement of some crap little city hall building, in front of a bunch of small-time bureaucrats, local businessmen, and busybodies. He’d gamble on a crowd under fifty strong. 

 

“Dual citizenship? Ain’t you fancy.” The woman to a generous sip from her martini. “Anne Bourbon, she’s that congresswoman, ain’t she? Awful young. Didn’t know she was running at all.” 

 

He sighed and threw back the last of his glass. “She’s thirty-nine. And no, I wouldn’t suppose you had heard.” 

 

He had the distinct impression she was staring at his empty glass. That had to be number five - or was it six? He fought the urge to order another.  Tipsy he might be able to get away with, but  drunk - and obviously so - would be over the line. Not even John could get him out of that pickle with the others. 

 

“What do you do, exactly?” She asked him, squinting with suspicion. 

 

Oh. He blinked. He hadn’t ever said. “I’m, ah, a political analyst and advisor. On…policy, and such. I write a little.”  Vague, he was also terribly vague. 

 

“You any good at it?” She sipped down the rest of her martini, and popped one of an outrageous three olives into her mouth with aplomb. Why did it need three? Athos could swear she’d had more than a couple of those. Had they all had three olives? That seemed like a gross overuse. And why did she get to look so judgmentally at his glass? 

 

Well, she didn’t have a presidential hopeful to advise in under an hour. 

 

Was he any good? He considered the question. He’d never had a candidate win anything. Not even a little town mayor’s election. Even his (ex) wife had denied his help with her reelection campaigns. Why John Treville had offered him this chance, he didn’t quite know. 

 

“No, I’m terrible.” He admitted at last. It felt good to admit it. His life’s work, the job that had made him old before his years and ruined a whirlwind romance and marriage, ruined his relationship with his family…and he couldn’t even do it well. It served him right. “I’ve never won once.” 

 

She stared at him for a moment. “That why you’re plastered at four in the afternoon?” 

 

“Mn. No. That’s because I have a speech to attend in forty-five minutes.” He sighed, sweeping his shaggy hair back from his forehead. She looked shocked. He shook his head and tossed a few large bills onto the bar and stood up, rolling his shoulders back. 

 

“I’d best go.” He smirked, picking up his jacket and sweeping out of the bar. “I have a job to get fired from.”

 

——

 

The meeting room was small, and dingy. It was in the basement of city hall. There was food provided, and coffee, and punch. The food was all crockpot meals, simmering cheerfully and made by an eager older woman named Irma or Wilma or Helen, something like that. Athos hadn’t been paying attention. The wine had at last kicked in, and his world was pleasantly fuzzy and devoid of its usual sharp edges. He could almost drift away; but no, he needed to be here. He should be present for this. It wasn’t the time for one of his little disappearing acts. The time for those was most likely in the past; his chest stung with the fear that they wouldn’t stay there. Well. If he was fired tonight, there was no need to worry about it.

 

He gave the skin of his inner wrist a sharp pinch, shocking himself back to the present for the time being. He watched Anne at the dusty old particle-board podium, her head held high and her eyes cold. She was bored. He could tell she was bored. The thirty-odd people in the room could most likely tell she was bored, too. This was bad. He should have brought the rest of the bottle with him from the bar - that would make it more entertaining, at least. 

 

Her senior aide - Timothy? Trevor? Something obnoxious - sat beside him, brimming with restrained nervous energy. Athos wished he could punch him.  He glanced over laconically instead. He hated giving the unctuous, supercilious man an iota of his attention. He was the sort who possessed a dull, flat sort of intelligence that wanted to demand interest and compliance from everyone around him. Athos had no patience for him. 

 

“You talked to her, correct?” The twitchy little man asked him. Even his voice was just…smarmy. Athos wondered how Treville put up with it. 

 

“I talked to her.” He sighed.

 

“What is she going to say?” 

 

Athos grimaced, sipping his punch. It was mango. Who, in this day and age, bought and made mango punch? 

 

“Athos, what is she going to say?” 

 

He set the glass down, staring at it. “I’m not certain.” 

 

He could feel the other man’s huffy gaze burning a hole in the side of his head. 

 

“You said you talked to her. If she’s not prepared for these questions, if they ask her about minimum wage -"

 

Athos sighed again. He’d never understood other people’s need to fuss over the possibilities of something that they could no longer change. She was up there, and talking. He couldn’t run up and whisper acceptable talking points in her ear.

 

“I talked to her about minimum wage.” He said again, forceful. 

 

“What did you tell her to say? This crowd is not going to think favorably of minimum wage hikes, they’re small business owners - “ 

 

Athos rubbed his temples. His head was starting to hurt and the man’s whining voice was cutting though the pleasant fog of wine. “I told her that if they asked, she should just answer honestly about why she’d voted that way.” 

 

“Jesus Christ, Athos.” the other man sat back in his chair with a heavy thump. Tyrone? No, he wasn’t interesting enough to be a Tyrone. He was like a nervous bowl of oatmeal. “You’re going to sink us.” 

 

“We haven’t precisely gotten afloat yet.” Athos rolled his eyes, refocusing on Anne up at the podium. She might be bored, but she looked good up there. Young. Untried, they might say. Only three years as a Congresswoman. She was a wild, radical voter. Had a wicked tongue. But she was completely, unfailingly honest. Athos could work with honest - given a chance. 

 

“Excuse me?” He wasn’t sure he could work with this whinging dog, though. 

 

“This isn’t precisely high stakes.” Athos gestured around the room, picking his plastic punch cup back up. It sloshed as he swung his hand around, dripping on Todd's pants. It could use a little more spike in it. 

 

Tony snorted. Tony sounded about right. He looked like a Tony. Tony or not, he was finally standing up and leaving Athos be. “Unbelievable.” 

 

Athos smiled a tiny, imperceptible smile into his cup. If nothing else, he would leave in a glorious blaze of being as annoying as humanly possible. 

 

A man at the third table from the left stood up. Athos must have missed Anne’s call for questions. The man had to be ten, fifteen years her senior. He wore a decent enough suit, off the rack, definitely in business but probably only locally. Athos braced himself for the inevitable and glanced around the room, wanting to look anywhere but where he should. He should watch her answer. 

 

“Congresswoman, I’m a local business owner…” 

 

Got it in one. He studied the faces of the crowd. Older, white, largely the more affluent half of the middle class. A fair share of well-pressed off the rack suits and strings of family pearls graced the room. It was hardly their goal constituency. They made Anne look even younger than she was; a child speaking to a room of adults. Athos pegged at least a quarter of them as conservative or conservative - leaning. Anne wasn’t meant to court moderates; in that route lay only failure. 

 

A younger man in the back caught his eye. He was big, broad, and youthful. At odds with everyone else in the room, and eyecatching. His dark eyes looked as bored as Anne’s had, but they twinkled when they caught Athos’ gaze. He shone in the dingy room, brimming with energy among the tired audience. He didn’t look like he belonged there. Athos couldn't look away. 

 

“…And a higher minimum wage hurts me, miss.” Athos winced. Miss. Hardly a more patronizing word had ever been invented or uttered by fifty year old businessmen. “It hurts my business and my bottom line. It hurts my employees when I can’t afford to pay them all and I have to cut back on my numbers. I just want to know why you’d vote for that. For someone who wants to pull people out of poverty and help our economy, it just doesn’t make any sense. If people wanted higher wages, they’d get an education and get a higher level of employment.” 

 

There was a murmur of agreement. The man who Athos had locked eyes with - for an embarrassing amount of time at this point - suddenly looked steely and hard. He hadn’t bought that jacket at the $9.15 Connecticut minimum wage, Athos was sure. Wouldn’t have afforded it at the $10.10 raise Anne had helped vote in, either. Athos prepared himself to be disappointed. It was only a stranger in a crowd, after all. Pleasant people didn’t take an interest in politics like this. Athos wasn’t convinced pleasant people even existed. 

 

Anne opened her mouth. Athos snapped his attention back to her. He hadn’t told her what to say. He’d told her to be honest. He studied her face, looking for fear, for uncertainty, for anger. How had he sent her up there without telling her what to say? 

 

“I voted for that raise, and I would vote for it again.” She had a clear, ringing voice. Confident. Casual. It was a good voice. She didn’t look bored anymore. “I could list statistics for you. I could tell you the number of college graduates, the single-income parents, the struggling pensionless elderly working for you for under twenty thousand a year. I could tell you how the minimum wage was meant to be a living wage.” 

 

She looked right at the man, her icy blue eyes full of fire. “I’d rather tell you this: Yes, I threw you under a bus, sir. I hurt you.  You, and quite a few other local businessmen - and the not local kind, too. I had other priorities. I wasn’t worried about your bottom line.”

 

They were all looking at her now. They weren’t on their phones or talking amongst themselves anymore. Something was hot and tight and hopeful in Athos’ chest. 

 

“A woman died in Hartford last year.” Anne looked at all of them, staring them down. “She was sleeping in her car, between her second and third jobs. It was ninety degrees outside - a hot summer. Two hundred degrees in the car, and she died. She didn’t have the time to go home and sleep there. She needed three jobs, you see, to feed and clothe her three children. To pay rent in a halfway decent school district. To pay her husband’s medical bills after he was injured at his second job, and lost both of them.” 

 

You could have heard a pin drop. A wave a peace rolled over Athos, filling him to the brim. It was a peace full of fire, but it pulled him entirely to the present. It washed away his desire to disappear.

 

“I could apologize to you, sir, but I won’t.” Her gaze had turned back to the man who had posed the question. “I don’t regret my vote. I believe it was Franklin Delano Roosevelt who said that 'no business which depends for existence on paying less than living wages to its workers has any right to continue in this country’. That was in 1933, ladies and gentlemen. 1933. It is 2015. I am not sorry for my vote. I am sorry it was necessary. If I am elected as your candidate - If I am elected to the Presidency, I will make damn sure it’s never needed again. Thank you for coming.” She closed the files in front of her and stepped down from the podium. Athos thought perhaps he could believe in angels again - the wine talking, most likely.

 

There was a moment of pure, torturous silence. Then, a slow smattering of applause. Athos blinked and stared around. He caught the eye of the youthful black man sitting in the back again. He was smiling broadly, and Athos suspected he’d started the applause. He felt a different sort of warmth low in his belly.

He’d forgotten what it was like not to be disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point I promise this will diverge somewhat from the actual events in West Wing; but at other times it will converge again. it's a fun experiment, hey.


	3. a noble activity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lunch with an old friend.

"Politics is a noble activity. We should revalue it, practice it with vocation and a dedication that requires testimony, martyrdom,

that is to die for the common good."

Pope Francis

 

 

 

If you had asked him, Aramis would have said that he was happy with his career. It paid well, he had excellent insurance, it was the sort of thing his father would bring up to friends at a barbecue - Yes, your Aleixo has that nice desk job at the office downtown, but our René, he works for Boubil and Schoenberg, he’s an attorney, maybe partner someday. He never had switched to calling him Aramis. He also wouldn’t listen to Aramis tell him that it was unlikely he’d rise so far as partner. That aside, Aramis was not hurting for money, and if his parents or the rest of the family had ever fallen on hard times, he had more than enough to care for them until they were back on their feet. He didn’t worry about his bills, or his student loans - all of it was easy enough to keep track of and he never wondered if he’d have enough for rent as well as his repayments. 

 

It came, however, with clients like the current one. He had never held much love for oil companies - he remembered school, almost ten years ago now, where they had teased him and called him a hippie. He was all for renewable energy; he didn’t even own a car or drive. He was bikes and public transit all the way. Days like today made him feel morally bankrupt, sitting in some obscene, posh glass office building discussing the “acceptable consequences” and liability of natural gas fracking. 

 

Now, he’d never been the TED talk poster boy for sustainability, but he’d been unable to keep himself from doing his research on the subject when the senior partner had asked him to sit in and help with the coverage of one of their newer clients. He had thought that being well-informed was good for business. Now, it was making him think that none of this was good business in any way whatsoever. 

 

“Aramis, have you spoken to those conservationists in the Sand Hills? Are they still kicking up a fuss abound long-term effects or groundwater or whatever it was?” 

 

Aramis blinked, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. “I’ve talked to them - they are concerned, sir. They’re concerned about the effects and about the land you’re going to be disrupting.” 

 

He could feel his boss beside him tense up. He could almost hear the man thinking  _oh no, Aramis, not again._

 

Well, there was no stopping now. His conscience compelled him to continue. “I did look into it, and with the recent droughts that have pushed through the Midwest, this year aside, I can understand their concerns about the groundwater contamination - it’s a real risk, and god knows they haven’t got an infinite amount to spare - "

 

His boss sighed, rubbing his temples. Aramis pressed on anyway.

 

“ - And well, I’m just not sure it’s the best idea, considering the other possible options, to waste some 70 trillion gallons of water on a dangerous practice that - “ 

 

The acquisitions manager sitting opposite raised his palm, making Aramis halt with a pinched look on his face. “We have people to run environmental impact studies and spin for the press, Mr. Herrera. I just need your firm to make sure our liability to the land and the owners is sorted out.” 

 

“Yes, sir.” Aramis sat back in his chair. Don’t roll your eyes, he told himself. You’ve dug quite enough of a hole for yourself today. He could feel the annoyance radiating off his boss beside him in waves. You need this job, he reminded himself. This is a great job. 

 

“Let’s break for lunch.” the stuffed shirt at the head of the table decided. Aramis tried not to be visibly relieved. He also tried not to be the first out of the room - it was no good to look like he was running away. 

 

HIs boss grabbed his elbow before he could disappear, muttering in his ear. “Keep the strong opinions to yourself, Herrera. Just do your work.” 

 

Aramis nodded, wincing a little. He couldn’t get out of this building fast enough. He didn’t have any sort of lunch plans, but he headed out into the warm summer rain anyway, turning the collar of his jacket up and standing in it for a moment outside of the tall doors of the office building. He’d liked rain ever since he was a child, though the rain in Philadelphia was always colder than it had been in Los Angeles. It was more plentiful, too, and he’d gotten used to the shift in temperatures. He was still horribly homesick in the colder months, though. His dismal day wasn’t making him any more fond of the North-East today, either. 

 

“You look like a drowned rat.” A familiar bass rumble rang out off to his right. He stood up straighter, blinking the rain out of his eyes. He turned on his heel, certain he had to be hallucinating or mistaken. 

 

There, plain as day, soaked from his dark curls to his fashionable but worn sneakers, bright smile shining out clear as day from his dark face and tangled beard - he should really trim that - was Porthos Duvallon. He looked good. Just as good as the day that they’d parted after graduation, promising to keep in touch as they navigated the wide and dangerous world. 

 

The noise that Aramis made was, in retrospect, very undignified. 

 

“Porthos!” He beamed at the other man, hurrying forward and collapsing eagerly into a damp, but very enthusiastic, bear hug. He had almost forgotten how wonderful Porthos’ hugs were - warm and all-encompassing, they were by far one of his favorite things in the world. 

 

“Good to see you too, you rascal.” Porthos’ chuckle resonated deep and warm where Aramis’ cheek was pressed to his chest. 

 

Aramis smiled at him, pulling back a little to study his old friend’s face. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in New York, aren’t you?” 

 

He thought he’d been keeping up with Porthos’ life well enough to know that. They emailed now and then, telling each other stories of what they’d been up to and where they were going, always promising to meet but never finding the time. 

 

“Takin’ a little break.” Porthos slung an arm around Aramis’ shoulders with the ease of long practice. Aramis couldn’t even bring himself to be annoyed with the trails of cold water it sent dripping down his back. 

 

“Finally getting tired of Senator Richelieu?” Aramis wrinkled his nose. It wasn’t that he hated the man - he’d met him once, and he'd seemed…patrician, for lack of a better word. A professional man and an intelligent one, but not a warm soul. 

 

Porthos hummed thoughtfully under his breath, his broad fingers tapping out a casual rhythm on Aramis’ shoulder. Aramis was shocked to realize how much he’d missed the other man’s easy presence, casual touch, his heavy weight pressed close to Aramis’ side. 

 

“He’s not a bad man.” Porthos started out, reluctant and defensive.

 

“He’s not really a good one either, though, is he?” Aramis said, finding the old Senator easy to dismiss. 

 

Porthos sighed, but he didn’t argue. The man had always been a terrible liar, and Aramis knew he wouldn’t bother trying to bullshit his old friend now. 

 

“I didn’t come here to talk about Richelieu. C’mon, let’s get lunch, I got some time.” 

 

Aramis could hardly turn that down. They strolled down the street as if not a day had passed, shoulders bumping, the rain dripping down their noses and soaking them both through to the skin. Aramis had missed this. They used to be inseparable, before Aramis had started chasing high paying lawyer jobs; before Porthos had gone overseas. It was like he’d been missing a limb and he hadn’t even noticed. 

 

Aramis wasn’t one for drinking before two, but with Porthos at his side and his rough morning behind him, he felt like he deserved a little something. Twenty minutes found them relaxing comfortably in the warm and dry Tria taproom down the street from his building. They’d picked their way through a few different plates of food and Aramis was just starting his second beer, eyeing his friend’s open and sunny face with a certain kind of suspicion. 

 

“As much as I enjoy your happiness, my friend, I don’t think I can be the entire cause of it - and I’m betting Richelieu doesn’t get you that cheery, either.” He’d always been better at poker than Porthos, who wore his heart on his sleeve whatever the occasion. 

 

Porthos wriggled a little in his seat. “I might have seen something the other night that’s got me feeling a little better about life. Maybe.” His crooked grin was contagious, and Aramis grinned back.

 

“Go on and tell me, I can tell you want to.” He laughed a little, sipping his drink. He’d missed Porthos’ enthusiasm. It had been missing from his last few emails, which had been full of frustration and sour words for the direction of the Senator’s campaign. 

 

“I’m sure you remember Anne Bourbon.” Porthos grinned wider at him. Aramis smiled into his glass. Did he ever. She’d made his senior year at Yale - and everyone else in their proximity’s - quite eventful. That had been almost ten years ago now. He hadn’t thought of her in - well. A couple of years, perhaps. The thought made him a little sad - she used to occupy his every waking thought, and some of his dreams, as well.

 

“Is she still with Louis?” He asked, without venom. Despite the stir he’d made int he two’s marriage, and his own lingering heartache, he’d emerged from the entire debacle good friends with them both before they’d all parted ways. Louis’ unfailing enthusiasm and affability made him a hard man to hate, especially since Aramis had been the one driving a wedge between his favorite TA and her charming, if dim-witted, wealthy husband. 

 

“Yeah, and goin’ strong.” Porthos chuckled. “She’s got him playin’ around the house with a kid on each hip, I hear, left the big company business to his board of directors.” 

 

Aramis smiled. “They finally had kids? She’s in Congress now, isn’t she?” 

 

Porthos nodded. “She works, he looks after ‘em, with significant help from a nanny I hear. They got another Louis, he’s near ten, and they adopted a girl a few years ago - Carolina, I think. Haven’t met the kids yet. Treville says they’ve been makin’ noises about havin’ more, but now’s not the time.” 

 

Aramis could feel curiosity burning a hole in his belly. Porthos might not be any good at deception, but he drew out the truth with bits and pieces of information so expertly it made Aramis want to be the one squirming in his seat. The first question on his mind was, there was no doubt about it, selfish.

 

“He’s almost ten?” Aramis kept his voice careful and neutral.

 

Porthos looked at him, a little of the glow leaving his smile. He was suddenly unreadable - where had he learned that? “Spittin’ image of Anne, just dark and curly.”

 

Porthos looked him up and down, voice careful. “He’s daddy’s little boy.” 

 

Aramis peered into his glass, suddenly quiet and still. The math was rough - He could be incorrect, it never paid to assume - 

 

“Anne’s gonna run for President, Aramis.” 

 

He snapped his gaze back to Porthos’ face, shocked back into the present. “What?”

 

“Anne’s running. I just saw her do an appearance in Connecticut, you know they like her there. She’s on their Congress. Got old family ties, got business ties through Louis. She’s still got that same fire. I think she’s got a shot.” Porthos’ face was grim.

 

Aramis nodded mutely. He was happy for her - he was thrilled. She’d been slogging through the local and regional politics for years, always taking two steps forward and one step back. She’d been fighting her age, her gender, her own forceful personality. She’d always wanted a seat at the table, and this could mean  _the_  seat. The big one.

 

“Aramis, she’s runnin’, and so as far as you’re concerned that boy is Louis’.” Porthos made sure to catch his eye, driving the point home with a sorrowful sort of seriousness. “No other options.”

 

Aramis closed his eyes. “Are you working her campaign now? Is that why you came, to shut me up?” 

He tried to keep the bitterness out of his voice as best he could, but he opened his eyes in time to see Porthos flinch slightly. 

 

“C’mon, Aramis, you know that ain’t it.” He looked at Aramis sadly, his brown eyes wide and tragic. “Treville wants to know if I want a spot, yeah. I’m thinkin’ of taking him up on it.” 

 

“What are you asking me, then?” Aramis tried to rally himself. He never wanted to upset Porthos - he saw the man too rarely to spoil it with a bad attitude. 

 

“Treville just fired the rest of her staff apart from some sad drunk guy named Athos. There’s a lot of openings, and they need a good speechwriter.” 

 

Aramis sat in silence for a while, staring at Porthos. He wasn’t sure he was processing what he’d just heard correctly. “You - what, sorry?”

 

Porthos chuckled, at last. “We need a speech writer. I’m handlin’ some policy and communications stuff, maybe, but you know how I am with writing. Athos isn't too bad, but he doesn’t want sole responsibility for the job. I remember how well you write, Aramis.” 

 

Aramis stared at him a moment longer. “I’d have to quit my job.”

 

“You hate that job.” Porthos waved the thought away with a sweep of his hand. “I only ever heard you talk about it on an email every couple months and I still know you hate it. Pays good, but there’s no heart in it.” 

 

“It’s a good job, Porthos.”

 

“Yeah, but you still hate it.” Porthos crossed his arms.

 

Aramis huffed and looked away, bouncing his knee in agitation. Porthos grinned at him knowingly. 

 

“Anne wants me for her speechwriter?” Aramis finally asked, hesitant.

 

“Like I said, Treville axed the rest of her staff after the speech I saw. Only one he kept was some guy named Athos de la Fere that she doesn’t even know. He’s gotta rebuild the whole thing. He’s askin’ me, and I want you along, too. We’ll be a couple friendly faces for her.” Porthos shrugged.

 

“Does Anne know that?” Aramis pressed him.

 

He sighed. “I haven’t met her yet. Treville said he asked her, said she was all for it. Warm regards and all. I don’t think there’s hard feelings, Aramis, but don’t get that look in your eye again.” 

 

“There’s no look.” Aramis pushed back defensively. 

 

Porthos just raised his eyebrows. “You in or out, Aramis?”

 

Aramis took a deep breath. “I might need to think about it. Is this - the real deal? She hasn’t changed?”

 

“She’s the same Anne.” Porthos reassured him. “Got that same bullheadedness. Same goodness. Gave a hell of a speech to some people who couldn’t appreciate it the other day. She only seems like she’s gotten better.” 

 

Aramis thought back to his morning. He thought about having to call those people in Nebraska back, press forward harder, lie to them about the effects this fracking would have on their land. He thought about living with that for the rest of his life. He thought about throwing away a hefty salary in exchange for his principles. 

 

He thought about how good it would feel to tell his boss and these slimy businessmen to go fuck themselves. 

 

“When do we start?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everyone for all the interest so far! I'm kind of stunned. if there are factual errors here and there on politics or anything else, please let me know, I'm winging this with a little help from google.


	4. whose heart is firm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a brief reunion of sorts.

'Tis the business of little minds to shrink; but he whose heart is firm, and whose conscience approves his conduct, will pursue his principles unto death.

Thomas Paine

 

 

Athos was glaring at Aramis’ knee. He was glaring at it because it would not stop bouncing. He’d known the other man for a handful of hours, and what Athos had noticed most about him - more than his handsome face, more than the ease in his own skin that Athos himself had never seemed to possess, more than his boundless enthusiasm, what Athos noticed most was the fact that he never fucking stopped moving. The man had so much energy that it just seemed to vibrate out of him. Just looking at him made Athos tired.

 

Stuck to his side was the man that Athos had locked eyes with at Anne’s speech. Athos had learned that his name was Porthos, that he really did smile like that all the time, and that he and Aramis moved around each other with a fluidity and ease that Athos was compelled to loathe on sight - but couldn’t quite actually bring himself to. They were old friends, they'd told him with delight, and his new coworkers in the attempt to drag Anne’s campaign to the light. They had gone to law school together - and with Anne and Louis, as well. For all that that had been near a decade ago, Athos felt painfully old among them. They all seemed young, and full of life, optimism, and hope. Granted, it was only the first day. Athos could chalk all this horrifying bravado up to the fact that Anne hadn’t even seen them yet. Even then, Athos felt like a small, strange interloper on a reunion among friends. He couldn't see how he would fit into this new configuration any more than he had the last one.

 

It hadn’t helped that John had come out so staunchly in his corner the other day. It was just over a week ago, and here he was, the only one left out of the previous three months of campaigning. He’d hardly been able to believe it - one moment, he had been sitting at the table after Anne’s mediocre showing at city hall, waiting to be fired not just for being drunk and cantankerous at work, but also for urging the candidate to alienate her audience in the first place. Ted hadn’t been pleased (And he was a Ted, Athos remembered now, because it had made such an impression when John had looked at him and said “Ted, you’re fired.”) and the others had grumbled in agreement with him as they glared sidelong at Athos.

 

All he’d said was that it hadn’t been that bad.

 

Treville, to his surprise, had agreed with him. Anne, as she swept through their conversation like some kind of tired, grumpy, glittering bird, had made her displeasure known. But to Athos’ surprise, it wasn’t displeasure with him for making her wing it at the podium, but with the others for their constant attempts to ‘handle’ her. She'd doled out some venom for being made to look like a silly young girl - shocking and acerbic in her soft, even voice, and then she was gone again in a whirl of blonde hair and the subtle glitter of her heels, disappeared completely by the time Athos had tuned back into John firing every other staffer besides himself.

 

And now here he was, staring blankly at the knees of two men he’d never met or spoken to before, realizing that if all went well they would be spending the next eight or nine years in each other’s company. Aramis’ knee had stopped bouncing. Athos glanced up and realized that two pairs of dark and shining eyes were watching him watch them, with naked amusement. He coughed and looked away, suddenly and immensely thankful as the door to the office clicked open and Anne strode in, Louis close by her side. They were alone - the children would be in school, Athos supposed; all the better, as he’d never understood children. They never seemed to like him much, either. The bright and gorgeous pair of adults were more than enough to deal with on their own, even if Louis' smile made him look like an ass.

 

“Aramis! Porthos!” Anne smiled at the two men, who stood with matching broad grins on their damnable youthful, handsome faces. Athos considered trying to make himself smaller than he already was. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could vanish from the crowded, humid little room. He wanted nothing more than to be anywhere else on Earth.

 

\--

 

Aramis, in turn, felt like he had been waiting for this moment for the last nine years. Anne had hardly changed, as beautiful and delicate as he’d remembered. A few years older, perhaps, and a little more iron in her eyes than he’d remembered. That only made her look even better. He couldn’t keep himself from being swept into a hug, but he remembered to keep it short and let her move on to embrace Porthos, as well. 

 

He thought that all of their feelings had been in the past - and when he looked inside himself and prodded at the spaces in his heart that had used to be consumed with the idea of her, he found them as resilient and scarred over as he had thought they’d been. He was overwhelmed, seeing her again, but his feelings were tied up in nostalgia and sadness as much as they were a distant sort of love. It had been so long ago. She was still one of the most amazing people he’d ever seen - and politics seemed to have suited her well, giving her a confident air that had sometimes eluded her as a fresh-faced teaching assistant of twenty-nine. 

 

“Aramis, you old rogue, how are you?” Louis hadn’t changed one bit either, thought he seemed to be trying out a goatee. It was perhaps an ill-advised attempt. Aramis could never return a smile with as much exuberance as Louis did, no matter how he tried, but he gave it his best shot. 

 

“All the better now that I’m sitting here, Louis.” He said truthfully, letting the other man shake his hand with all the enthusiasm he seemed to put into everything. He pumped his arm up and down so hard that Aramis wondered if it would fall off at the shoulder. 

 

Porthos received the same treatment, and the four of them started to talk at a mad pace, trying to fit ten years of experiences, dreams, and upsets into a five minute conversation. 

 

“ - And you would not believe the inane drivel they wanted me to say up there, not a hint of an opinion or a point of view anywhere - “

 

“She’s just now six, you know, bright as a tack, follows little Louis around everywhere, they’re darling, he’s the spitting image of me - “ 

 

“ - Fucking Anthony Rochefort, I’m telling you - “

 

“Wouldn’t even consider listening to my advice on clean energy - “ 

 

They went on like that for twenty minutes before Treville cleared his throat, slowing the fast-paced chatter to a stop. Aramis had to restrain himself from his constant studying of Anne’s face, as if he was sure that if he looked away he’d forget what she looked like. He needed to get all his staring in now, before there were people to notice it or cameras to capture it. He could feel Athos watching him from under his messy fringe. The man had an unsettling stare - it had made Aramis nervous at first. It was the kind of stare that found fault in most places, and didn’t find much good in anything. Aramis was a little vulnerable to those stares. He’d noticed, though, that the blue eyes behind it were soft and sad. When he caught Athos watching him, it seemed like any censure in his gaze was mixed with a sort of wistful yearning. Aramis had the strong suspicion that his new coworker wasn’t so much an ass as he was just…sad. And quiet. Athos hadn’t said more than ten words all day, and he - unsurprisingly- hadn’t spoken up during the mad torrent of information that had just taken over the little office.

 

Those eyes seemed shrewd, though, and as the one unknown quality in this little inner circle they were building, Aramis couldn’t help but wonder how much they could see. How long could they keep up the charade that he and Anne had been nothing to each other? Were nothing to each other now? …He had to admit, though, that the onus was on him. She was married, had children, was running to be the damned President of the United States. If anyone fucked this up, it would be him. Porthos had been more or less telling him so for days now - “Let go of the past.” seemed to be his most common refrain. 

 

He couldn’t help trying to get a moment to talk to Anne alone after their brief meeting. The hallways of the little building they’d set up shop in were musty and old and just a little bit convoluted, and they made it easy to have a private conversation out of the way of one’s companions. He caught up to her as she and Louis made for the exit, clearing his throat in lieu of reaching out to touch her again. 

 

“Aramis.” She said warmly, turning to look at him. He could see now the passage of the years in the fine lines starting to appear around her eyes, but she looked as vibrant as he remembered anyway. He touched his own beard self-consciously, remembering the silver that had started to thread through it.

 

“Anne. It's good to see you again.” He smiled, sliding hands into his pockets to curb the urge to touch her arm, her shoulder, her face.

 

She nodded. “I’m glad you agreed to work on this campaign. It will be nice, having you and Porthos disrupting the place.”

 

He had to chuckle at that. “We’re very good at disruptions - at least, we used to be.”

 

“I remember.” She smiled back at him with fondness. “I’m grateful to have old friends taking this journey with me.” 

 

He nodded. “I never thought I would get this chance.” And he hadn't. He hadn't thought he would see any of them again. He hadn't thought his work would ever have meaning again.

 

She studied him for a moment, eyes calculating and intense.  He shifted awkwardly under her gaze. He used to be able to read her face with ease, but this one was escaping him at the moment. He felt…strange, not knowing what she was thinking. Not knowing if it was favorable toward him, or un.

 

“Aramis, I have missed you.” She said at last. “Will you be all right, here? We parted so well those years ago. I would like to still be friends.” 

 

He took a deep breath, his heart sinking. Why, though? This was what he had expected. To tell the truth, it was what he wanted. The time of their romance had passed - he wanted to be friends. It shouldn’t feel painful to hear her voice that same desire.

 

 “I’ll be fine.” He smiled. “This is - a fantastic opportunity, and I’m glad to be among friends again.” 

 

It was true, he was. It was certainly better than the firm he’d left, where he’d been the eccentric young man who had needed constant supervision. Here, he could bump shoulders with his best friend, be cared for like family by his boss and her husband. His closest supervisor was as good as his best friend’s father. They were, if all went as planned, going to change the world. What more could he want?

 

He wanted to know about the other Louis. 

 

“Good, I’m glad.” She smiled with more confidence. “I have faith in all of you - I think. But we have a lot of work to do.”

 

He nodded. “I’ll get right to work, Congresswoman.” He smiled crookedly.

 

She grinned back, a little of her old mischief in her eyes. “See that you do, Mr. Herrera.” 

 

He laughed, and watched her regroup with Louis. The two of them looked regal, leaving together. They walked like statesmen. He tried to picture them running the country - Anne in the Oval Office, shaking hands with dignitaries. Louis on the lawn, watching his children play with those of other world leaders. Would it be a peaceful presidency, or would Anne have to sit in the situation room and order their country to war? Could she do that? Would she? 

 

Aramis realized, with some surprise, that he had complete faith in her. She would do what was necessary. She had always been kind, and courteous, but she was wise, too. Smart as a whip and unafraid. 

 

They could do this. They could make Anne Bourbon the President of the United States. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear we'll finish picking people up next chapter - i just felt like Aramis and Anne needed a chance to chat.


	5. don't quote me on this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> constance has had better days.

He who knows how to flatter also knows how to slander.

Napoleon Bonaparte

 

 

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

 

Constance Bonacieux had not been having a great week. Or month, really. Actually, the entire last six months could be chalked up as a total wash. 

 

She’d finalized her divorce, which was honestly a godsend but had been a grueling and depressing process. She still was figuring out going back to her maiden name, trying to settle on who got the car, the house, and the money - her salary had far outstripped Jaques’ at this point, but the little weasel was going to fight tooth and nail to prove it wasn’t so, and simply not being his wife anymore wasn’t doing much to stop his whining and constant phone calls. Now, of course, he was insisting that he couldn’t live without her and that this had all been a terrible mistake. She supposed it must seem so, once he had realized that he was finally, for the first time in his life, not getting his way. 

 

She had in fact assumed it was him calling her at - dear god, six a.m. - after all, who else but obsessed and desperate ex-husbands called someone’s personal line at that hour? She felt that that excused her rather rude greeting of “What the hell do you want now?”, but the voice over the phone was most certainly not her ex-husband’s. 

 

“I - oh, I’m sorry, Bill, I thought you were…someone else. It’s six a.m.? Is it six where you are? I thought you were in LA.” She rubbed the grit out of her eyes and sat up in bed, trying to at least be relieved that the house was still, quiet, and empty.

 

“I am in LA!” The man’s sharp New York accent barked from her cell. “I want to see you immediately! I’m in the office!”

 

Constance closed her eyes, falling back onto her pillows with a soft fwump.

 

“Constance! Constance!”

 

She sighed. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

 

He was still talking when she hang up, sprawled across her crisp, cool, perfect and comfortable bed. She had to get up. Get up, get up, get up. He would only get worse the more she made him wait. 

 

She dragged herself out of bed and into the shower, hurrying herself through a morning routine that normally took an hour in fifteen minutes. Her hair was awful, but it could be held back; the clothing was…frumpy, but acceptable, and - and she had just dropped her contact down the sink drain. She stared at it for a minute, the world a half-blurry mess, before swearing and just switching over to her old pair or glasses. Yes, looking very fashionable today, Constance. 

 

She made it to the office in a record half an hour, still groggy and wondering if there would be coffee there or if she would have to wait until what she was sure would be an hours-long haranguing was over. There had better be coffee. She might have to kill someone if there wasn’t any coffee.

 

She parked and exited her car in a furious tangle, slamming the door behind her -- 

 

_crunch_

 

\-- right onto the frames of the glasses that had tumbled from her face. 

 

Great. Yes, that seemed about right. She climbed the stairs to the office in a blurry, squinting stumble. Frankly she was a little relieved - Bill wasn’t her favorite sight at seven a.m.. He wasn’t a great one for most of the rest of the day, either. 

 

She was sure that the other people in the room were staring at her as she made long strides toward Caroline’s office. She hoped it was sympathetic, but she couldn’t really see, so it didn’t matter. She’d just edit them all into sympathy later on when she was remembering. 

 

Walking into Caroline’s office felt like stepping up to the guillotine. It was deathly quiet for nearly half a minute when she stepped inside. That had never happened before.

 

“Good morning?” She chirped, hoping the awkward silence would break.

 

“I’ve been waiting on you for forty-five minutes!” Bill exploded, his impotent fury let off the leash. 

 

Constance sighed. “You called at six a.m., Bill, I had to actually get ready for work. Now I’m here, and I’m ready, so what can I do for you?” 

 

_Here and ready an hour before I normally would be_ , she thought but didn’t say. He was a hard one to wrangle, and he was already turning an alarming shade of puce. It probably wouldn’t do to bait him any further, even if it would have been fun.

 

“Have you seen the Empire issue this month?” Caroline asked quietly as the big man stewed. Constance could have sworn his shiny bald head had steam rising from it. 

 

“…Is there a piece on the movie? We weren’t consulted on one.” Constance was hesitant. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good, and it must be more than just another font or quote dispute. 

 

“Well, not as such. The Martian got the cover, of course - “ Caroline was interrupted by Bill scoffing.

 

“We didn’t have the visuals to compete with Martian for the cover image.” Constance said patiently, for what felt like the hundredth time.

 

“Microcosm did get a mention!” Bill snapped. He didn’t sound pleased about it. “Show her, Caroline.” 

 

Caroline stood up from her neatly organized desk, carrying a slick, fresh off the press copy of the magazine over to Constance, who was still barely inside the doorway. She shut the door and took the magazine from her. It was flipped open to a smaller article, probably hardly even a footnote on the cover, but the title made Constance’s heart stop. 

 

“Hollywood Ego: How Microcosm Made My Wife a Monster.” She read, slowly and carefully. 

 

It was there, in shiny block print. She didn’t even have to hold the pages up to her nose to read it. “An interview with Jacques Bonacieux.” 

 

Well. The summer blockbusters had slowed down and dried up, and everyone liked to pretend they enjoyed human interest stories. Especially about the little guys. She flipped through the little two-page interview, squinting at the type. Laid out were the facts of her life as a up and coming, successful Hollywood promoter. Every frustrated word, every late night drink or exasperated rant, every criticism of the quality (or lack thereof) on the movie laid bare to the public by her sniveling, rat-faced ex husband. He was blaming her career success for the failure of their marriage, and he made quite a nice case for his own martyrdom. Apparently, Hollywood had turned her from June Cleaver into a raging harpy, a shrew, and a somehow sexless philanderer. 

 

“I can’t believe this.” She murmured, staring at Jaques’ handsome hangdog face juxtaposed next to one of their old wedding photos that she’d never even liked. 

 

“Neither can I!" Bill roared. “Sixty thousand dollars we’ve wasted on advertising and PR for this movie, for a piss-poor effort from you, and now this! Ruined, in one sensational little op-ed! Is this how you do business?”

 

Constance blinked. “This is - not intentional. This is a gross invasion of my privacy and blatantly untrue, and I really don’t think I can consider its impact on your crap movie right now, Bill.” 

 

There was a sharp intake of breath from Caroline, and then the older woman was up and steering Constance out of the room by her elbow. The stood int he hall outside the door, Constance lapsing into a stunned silence. She’d noticed more and more lately that Jacques was an ass, and always had been, but she hadn’t expected something like this. This was a complete betrayal - raising her from almost unknown status, to notoriety, to a pariah all in one fell swoop. 

 

“Constance.  _Constance._ ” Caroline shook her elbow. 

 

“ — God, sorry, yes, Caroline? I’m sorry, I’m just a little…” She shook her head, focusing on her boss’ blurry face. 

 

“I know this can’t be easy...” Bless Caroline, she’d always had a certain motherly sort of air. Like she would just sweep you up if anything bad happened to you.

 

“I know this is - not the best press, and I can see it’s upset Bill a bit, but I’ll do some ass-kissing and damage control, those remarks are all either fabricated or - exaggerated - “ Constance rubbed her temples, trying to think her way out of the mess that had been laid in front of her. 

 

“Bill wants me to fire you, Constance.” Caroline said, her voice still gentle.

 

The pair of lying snakes. “They were just frustrated remarks made at home, Caroline! I was letting off steam in confidence, I never thought—“ 

 

“You knew this divorce was on its way, Constance. This can’t be a surprise to you. You should have known better.” Caroline’s soft voice had gone firm.

 

Constance felt numb. She played a brief fantasy of slapping both Bill and Caroline as hard as she could in her mind’s eye before she found her voice again. “Can someone call me a cab?” She choked out. 

 

She’d been a little loud. All the typing in the room had stopped, bathing the entire office in an eery quiet.

 

“Beg pardon?” Caroline asked her, voice stiff. 

 

“I - lost my contacts this morning, and I broke my glasses, and I can’t drive myself home and I assume this conversation does not end with me still employed, so could someone  _please_  call me a cab?” Constance could hear her voice getting louder and louder. She was verging on hysterical. This wouldn’t be the last of her bad day, though - the entire country was going to see that article. Everyone would be reading that slimy bastard’s words by lunchtime. 

 

“Can someone please call Constance a cab?” Caroline called out as Constance stood, frozen.

 

“It  _is_  a shit movie, Caroline.” Constance said, flatly.

 

Caroline didn’t say anything. 

 

—

 

Constance was silent for the entire ride home. Processing what Jacques had done, the full enormity of it, seemed to take up all of her thoughts. Her phone buzzed, but she ignored it. With no job anymore, it could only be the asshole himself, or her sister calling to pour condolences on her and ask her how she’d managed to screw this one up. Most of her friends had been industry people. They wouldn’t call until the dust settled and she’d had time to lick her wounds, they knew better than that. All the others had been Jacques’ friends first, and to tell the truth, she’d hated most of them anyway. 

 

She just couldn’t understand why. Why he had to ruin her life so completely. What had she done to him that made him want to make sure she was left with absolutely nothing? How could anyone hate someone they’d spent so many years sleeping beside so much? Well, she was certain that once the shock wore off, she’d hate him just as much in return. She hoped that was what he’d wanted. She was unsure of her future beyond that. There were legal fees still to pay, a mortgage hanging over her head, bills upon bills and no income to pay them with. Oh, she’d be fine for a little while, a few months maybe - but no one would be hiring her any time soon. There was nothing to replace what she had just lost in a twenty-minute meeting. 

 

She stumbled through her garden gate, letting it creak and slam shut behind her. This ridiculous faux-Spanish house, the stupid pool, the gardens that Jacques had demanded but never looked after himself. Everything in her life was just something that Jacques had wanted. Well, now the bastard could have it all.

 

A fuzzy shape was standing closer to the house, and she felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. She couldn’t speak to him right now - she just had the powerful urge to pull off her heel and chuck it at his head. 

 

“Who is that?” She snapped aggressively, footfalls clicking with purpose on the terracotta beside the pool.

 

“Just me.” Was the response, quiet and soft, with a slight posh accent curling around the vowels. Definitely not Jacques, though it was somehow familiar for all she couldn’t place it. 

 

“Who?” She squinted, feet sliding on the damp tile. 

 

“Me.” The blob repeated a little louder, as if that would be helpful - but then, how many monosyllabic Frenchmen did she have the pleasure of being acquainted with? 

 

“Athos? Is that you? I broke my glasses - " Her heel caught in the groove of the tile, and she had one brief moment to yelp and think oh, fuck before she toppled into the pool, papers and all. 

 

It took a moment of floundering for her to make it to the surface, even with a helping hand clamped tight around her wrist and pulling her to the edge of the pool. She spluttered for air, gripping the edge as she found her footing in the shallow water. 

 

“You fell in the pool.” Athos said helpfully. 

 

She glared up at him. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

 

He was too fuzzy for her to see his face from this distance, but she’d bet he was giving her one of his amused little hangdog grins. 

 

“I can reach the bottom, thank you, so if you’d let go I’ll be getting out now.” She told him primly. 

 

He released her arm with a little cough, backing up from the edge of the water. She waded to the steps, emerging in a flood of water. 

 

“You’d better not be staring at me, Athos de la Fere!” She snapped over her shoulder.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” His quiet voice piped up at her elbow. She almost fell back into the pool. 

 

He draped a towel over her shoulders and retreated rapidly out of striking range. Smart man. Constance started to wring out her hair. “What are you doing here?” She sighed. 

 

“I, ah, had something to ask you.” He muttered, still keeping a respectful distance. 

 

“Well, my day has been completely terrible, so you can’t make it much worse.” She wrapped the towel around her shoulders, shivering. 

 

She should have known Athos would take a statement like that as a challenge. He cleared his throat. “Your phone is still in your pocket.” 

 

Constance swore violently, tearing her brand new and rather expensive phone out of her pocket. It let out a sad little boop, and her shoulders fell even further, if that was possible. 

 

“Put it in rice.” Athos said.

 

“Thanks, yes, I do know what to do with a watery phone.” She sighed and put it back in her pocket. “Stop stalling, and tell me what you want.” 

 

Athos hemmed and hawed for another moment. Constance was sure he did it just to annoy her. “Anne Bourbon wanted me to talk to you.” He was examining his shoes, and Constance had half a mind to ask him if he was talking to her, or to her grout, before his words sunk in.

 

“Anne Bourbon? What does Anne Bourbon want to talk to me for? She knows my name?” Constance stared at him, stunned. 

 

Athos hummed and nodded. “We need a PR person, someone to deal with the press, and she liked that, uh, thing you did last year - “

 

“The Planned Parenthood benefit?” Constance had been proud of that - they’d still lost their federal funding this year, but she liked to think they’d stalled it for a little while.

 

“Yes, that.”

 

She paused in her aggressive drying of the rest of herself, looking at him suspiciously. “Did she actually ask for me? She doesn’t know who I am, does she?”

 

He sighed. “John Treville suggested you, and I agreed. You’d be an excellent Press Secretary, Constance.” 

 

“Treville thought of me?” She’d met him once, at a benefit or gala, something like that. She hadn’t thought she’d made the best impression then, but she must have been wrong. She passed, considering it. She didn’t have much to lose. “How much does it pay?” 

 

“How much do you make now?”

 

“$550,000 a year.” She raised her eyebrows. 

 

“This pays about $750 a week.” He cleared his throat again.

 

“So, less.” she said.

 

“…Yes.”

 

She sighed. “Anne Bourbon - She’s good, right? You think she can do this?”

 

“Yes.” Athos told his shoes again.

 

“Athos.” Constance snapped. 

 

He looked up at her, pausing a moment. His usually quiet voice, a little hesitant every time she’d ever spoken to him, was clear and strong. “Yes. She’s good.”

 

Constance squinted, studying his face as best she could. “…Well, I haven’t got anything to lose.” 

 

Athos smiled, wide enough for her to see. He was always unfortunately charming when he smiled. 

 

“I’ll warn you, though, I’ve just had a very unflattering interview with my ex husband published. It’s not a good start.” 

 

“We’ve all had an unflattering interview with a spouse published at some point.” Athos mused. “To be honest, all we have are unflattering articles.” 

 

“Right. Well. Come inside, I need to get some rice.”

 

“Constance?”

 

“What now?” 

 

“The house is that way.” He pointed. 

 

“…Right.”

 


	6. like a sad barn owl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the primary race continues on

I have no ambition to govern men; it is a painful and thankless office.

Thomas Jefferson

 

 

Iowa was cold in late fall. Aramis had thought that Philadelphia was bad enough, but Iowa in November already had snow on the ground. Several inches of it. The old brick building they were posted up in was drafty and damp. It had to be roughly a hundred years old, and Aramis suspected that the insulation and plumbing had never been updated. He’d caught himself thinking fondly of his cozy, warm office back in Philadelphia a time or two; There was no Porthos there to bring him hot cups of terrible coffee, though. No Constance, pestering him about eating, or Anne, sweeping through the office and dropping blankets on them at random, always concerned about them catching cold. There wasn’t any work quite so worth his time in Pennsylvania, either. 

 

The office was a constant bustle of interns and volunteers, rushing around and trying to keep the minutia of a Primary race campaign running. Constance had her own team of jittery, energetic 20-somethings who seemed to hang on to the woman’s every word. She looked somehow both more and less tired than when she’d arrived to their camp with Athos, traveling on the wings of personal Hollywood scandal. She moved with purpose now, and only seemed to run out of steam and joy de vive when she ran out of things to do. Athos himself had disappeared into several layers of coats, sweaters, and hoodies, topped with one of the absurd cartoon-printed polar fleece blankets that Anne had draped over his head one cold, snowy morning. The interns all gave the quiet man a wide berth, unless he was shouting for them, and Aramis suspected he tended to nod off during the day when no one had something for him to immediately do. He seemed even less fond of the cold than Aramis himself. 

 

“How’s the wordsmithing coming?” Porthos rumbled off to Aramis’ left, sprawling artfully in one of the ancient rolling chairs that Aramis was sure would topple over one day. He propped his feet on Aramis’ seat, looking comfortable and at ease. He was wearing his big woolen coat, but it hung open over nothing more than a typical thin dress shirt, and Aramis could swear he was radiating heat to the surrounding area.

 

“You mean the six emails, two ads, and entire website filler I need to rewrite?” Aramis rolled his eyes, nudging Porthos’ feet but allowing them to remain where they were. “Why don’t we have someone assigned to this who isn’t me?”

 

Athos, apparently summoned by Aramis’ whining, blinked himself awake and into the land of the living. He emerged from his cocoon a little like an exceptionally comfortable turtle, and stared over at Aramis.

 

“An intern was doing it. You told him he was a moron and to stick to coding, and he ran off to sit in the loo for an hour.” 

 

Porthos chuckled. “He’s got you there.”

 

“He was a bad writer.” Aramis huffed, defensive. The kid had barely been able to string together two sentences. Aramis wasn’t about to trust him with the entire online candidate message. The coding nerds were great with the look and function of the site - He would never dream to infringe on their territory there - but they couldn’t write their way out of a paper bag. Even a thin one. So, Aramis was writing…everything. Campaign emails, one or two a day to be sent to everyone on their mailing list, speeches, youtube and television ads, and chasing after Anne every time she said something a little too inflammatory on twitter before he had a chance to catch her. 

 

He sighed and balled up his latest attempt at a thirty-second youtube clip. “Though at the moment, I’m not much of a better one.” 

 

Feeling a touch mischievous, he tossed the paper ball across the room in a smooth, beautiful arc. It hit Athos right on the top of his head, with a very satisfying, papery noise.

 

The closest interns froze in their tracks, staring between them in horror, while Porthos let out a surprised bark of laughter. 

 

Athos spun in his chair slowly, leveling a blank stare at Aramis, who beamed back at him. “…Am I meant to read that, or are you regressing to your not-so-distant childhood?”

 

Aramis grinned even wider. “Oh, the spot is crap. But that was a beautiful shot.”

 

Porthos’ eyes crinkled up at the corners while he beamed at the two of them. Aramis felt immensely pleased with himself. He was still feeling smug as Athos bent down and picked up the paper, and continued to feel so right up until Athos’ arm went back and he whipped the paper ball right back across the room, beaning Aramis directly in the face.

 

He stared at Athos, stunned, as Porthos roared with laughter. The interns, sensing trouble, had started inching to the edges of the room; most of them, also sensing a good show, stayed hovering just inside the room. 

 

There was a beat where the two men just stared at each other, assessing how childish they were willing to be. Porthos glanced between them, his eyebrows rising higher and higher. The calm finally snapped with Aramis spun around rapidly in his char and started balling up his other previously rejected drafts, chucking them wildly in Athos’ general direction.  Athos returned them with surprising and terrifying accuracy. Porthos, stuck in the crossfire, started to pick up any extra paper debris he could lay hands on and chucked it at the both of them in turn. Both he and Aramis were laughing until tears streamed from their eyes now, but Athos remained quiet - albeit with a welcome new light in his eyes, and a smile tugging at his lips.

 

Constance strode into the room blindly, only realizing her mistake when she was pelted without mercy with paper and the occasional small eraser - just an accidental casualty of war, of course. She held up her clipboard like a shield, yelping. “Really, boys? I can’t leave you all alone for five minutes? Hey!”

 

They slowed to a stop, all of them wearing identical guilty expressions and chorusing “Sorry, Constance.”

 

Somewhat mollified, she gave them each a stern (but, in Aramis’ opinion, very fond) look. 

 

“You three are cleaning this up.” She admonished them. “Don’t you dare ask the interns to do it - you made the mess yourselves.” 

 

Aramis and Porthos hung their heads. “Yes, Constance.”

 

Athos, for his part, looked completely unrepentant. He waited until Constance had crossed the room and left again, before swiveling his chair to stare at the other two. 

 

“You started it.” He told Aramis. 

 

Aramis was stunned by the cheek and immaturity for a moment, before realizing what the little sneak was up to. “Oh no, you are not weaseling out of clean up duty.” 

 

Athos frowned. Aramis was sure that particular petulant, defiant look had gotten him out of many a thing he didn’t want to do in the past, but he found it more adorable than intimidating. Athos wasn’t going to escape him, no matter how grumpy he got. 

 

“Don’t you give us that look.” Porthos seemed to agree with him, from the way he was grinning at the other man. 

 

Athos’ face was verging dangerously close to a pout. 

 

Aramis rolled his eyes and started picking up. The rest of the office began a slow return to its normal movement as Porthos and Athos (reluctantly) began helping him. 

 

Struck with a sudden thought, Aramis popped up again and glared around at the interns. “And that had better not end up on youtube!”

 

—

 

Aramis was still there at well past nine that night, having made little headway on the ad campaign. Porthos has left him an hour ago, with a fresh cup of coffee and a rough but enthusiastic hair ruffle. The coffee was now stone cold, and Aramis was still staring in despair at his notebook and laptop. His entire mind felt blank. There was just nothing in it. He had…nothing. He couldn’t even remember English. His last draft had been a mishmash of English diction and abstract thought scribbled in Spanish in the margins, and none of it made any fucking sense. 

 

“Still having trouble?” Athos murmured from behind him. 

 

Aramis jumped, finally setting the chair to tipping backwards, and he crashed to the old wooden floor notebook and all. “Ow, jesus christ!”

 

Athos made a low, concerned noise and helped to right him and the treacherous chair again. He hadn’t even realized the older man was still here. He dusted himself off and eyed Athos, who was still watching him as if me might lose his balance and careen off at any moment. 

 

"I didn’t realize you were here.” Aramis justified himself, a touch petulant. 

 

“I could see that.” Athos had shed most of his layers in favor of one of their Anne for America shirts (Bourbon for America had been rejected as being in poor taste, though Athos had been all for it), and it made his usually compact but imposing figure, so often all in blacks, grays, and heavy wool, seem soft and young. 

 

He pulled a chair up to Aramis’ desk, picking up his former, discarded blanket and wrapping it back around his shoulders as he nestled into the chair, feet tucked under him. He looked like nothing so much as a tired, overworked grad student, hovering in a computer lab in his pajamas. 

 

“What’s the problem?” He asked, peeking out from under his messy hair.

 

Aramis sighed. “We’re still running a three person race against Richelieu and Savoy until the latest results tell me otherwise, and I don’t know if I’m coming or going.” 

 

“Savoy is only just hanging in the race, he’s nothing.” 

 

“I know that, but we’ve got to make sure everyone else in the country is coming to the same conclusion.” 

 

Athos scratched his chin and shrugged. The man seemed eternally sleepy. “We’re younger, more vital. Play on that.”

 

Aramis rubbed his temples. “I say we’re young and vital, Richelieu says we’re untested and untried.”

 

“Don’t worry about what Richelieu says. We’re not even on his radar yet.” Athos snuggled deeper into his blanket. 

 

“Don’t worry about it? That’s your advice? We need to come out strong here, against Savoy if not against Richelieu as well, or we’ll just fade into the background.” Aramis tossed his pen onto the desk, frustrated. 

 

Athos hummed quietly. Aramis glanced over at him. The older man had a certain amount of experience that Aramis just didn’t possess, but it was no secret that most of that experience was with losing. He had never netted a win in his entire career. The rest of his life was a mystery to Aramis; he knew the man was divorced, but he couldn’t think of who Mrs. de la Fere had been. Still, he had a certain kind of wisdom to him. The mystery helped it on a bit.

 

“Well?” Aramis prompted him. 

 

Athos shrugged. “I still think you should just focus on our candidate at the moment. We have to establish a strong foundation of who we are before we can compare ourselves to anyone else. Though perhaps Constance is the one you should consult on this.”

 

“…No,” Aramis said, sitting back in his chair. “That’s actually a good point.” 

 

“I know.” Athos glanced at him, face bland.  Aramis narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t that Athos was smug - his expression hadn’t changed - but a vague superiority hung about him like a cloak. Not maliciously; in fact, Aramis was certain that Athos was teasing him.

 

“You know.” Aramis made a face at him, teasing back in kind. “Of course, _you_ know _everything._ ” 

 

He had meant to be gently ribbing Athos back in kind. He hadn't been as gentle as he could have, perhaps, but not so rough or vicious as he would tease Porthos at times. To his surprise, though, Athos’ eyes widened, and he looked stricken. 

 

“Athos, I didn’t mean - “ Aramis couldn’t even finish his sentence before Athos had lurched to his feet, blanket forgotten on the floor, and hurried - even bolted - out of the room. 

 

Aramis stood, meaning to follow him and apologize, but by the time he reached the door Athos had gathered his coat and swept out of the building, vanishing into the cold. When Aramis reached the door, the other man was just a hunched black shape silhouetted against the falling snow. Aramis swallowed, his heart in his throat. He hadn’t meant to upset Athos so much - he’d been growing to like the strange, fuzzy little man over the last few months. He’d thought he had been needling the man, as friends. He couldn’t even see him out in the snowfall now. He wondered for a moment if he should run after him - but there was no way of seeing where he’d gone, and Athos had most likely called himself a cab by now. He would be back in the office tomorrow, Aramis was sure nothing could keep him away. Aramis could text him, apologize and see if he made it back to their hotel. He’d apologize again in person tomorrow morning. He couldn’t bear to lose a new friend before he’d even found him.

 

He fired off a quick apology on his phone, and turned reluctantly back to his desk. He had an ad campaign to finish still - his night wasn’t over yet. There was still work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've realized none of you know when d'artagnan is showing up
> 
> ha ha ha


	7. there has never been an answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> athos goes back to the hotel

There is no gambling like politics.

Benjamin Disraeli

 

 

< _sorry, i didn’t mean to offend you. value yr input v much. pls don’t hate me?_ >

 

Athos stared at the screen of his phone. Snowflakes melted on it slowly. He’d meant to use it to call an Uber, but now he could only look at Aramis’ text. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing he could actually send.

 

_don’t be sorry, not your fault i’m a complete fuck up._

 

_no, you’re right, i am a moronic know it all_

 

_i don’t hate you_

 

Athos stuffed his phone back into his pocket before he actually sent Aramis anything. He had nothing to say. He’d behaved as it he knew everything; as if he wasn’t a failure, a curse to everything he touched. Aramis had the right not to listen to his advice. It was, categorically, probably very bad advice. Whatever it had been. His panicked flight from the office, more animal instinct than conscious decision, had driven the words themselves out of his head entirely. 

 

Why had he interfered? He kept waiting every day for Treville to say he had made a mistake that night when he’d dismissed the rest of the staff. That Athos was fired, too. Objectively, he knew that Anne, Treville, and the others valued his input - they said so; they listened to him. He couldn’t banish the feeling that he was perpetuating in a massive farce. He wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. Oh. He’d been falling into his head again. He was so unsettled by the evening - by the idea of trying to send a message back to Aramis, that he’d forgotten to call himself a car. He fished his phone back out of his pocket, cold fingers fumbling with the screen. He could stand in the cold and wait. Maybe it would shock sense back into his head. 

 

When the car finally arrived and he bundled himself, snowy and shivering, into the back he was no closer to knowing what to say to Aramis. He couldn’t begin to excuse his sudden flight. He dripped melting snow in the back seat, and when the driver asked him where to go, his first thought was not for his warm and cozy hotel room.

 

“Where’s the nearest liquor store?” he sighed. “With wine. Good wine, not the kind that comes in a cardboard box.” 

 

The car took him to a 24-hour grocery store. He had the driver wait on him as he went in and bought four bottles of red. The man seemed a little surprised; Athos had hoped he would assume Athos was headed to an event, or a party. Then again, he supposed that he didn’t really seem like the partying type. He stared coldly into the rearview and gave the driver the address for their hotel. He didn’t care what an Uber driver thought. His team, though - if they spotted him shuffling in, bag full of clinking bottles, he supposed he might feel a little ashamed.

 

By now, everyone ought to be sequestered safe and snug in their rooms or out on the town. There wasn’t an endless number of things to do in Des Moines, but the city wasn’t entirely bereft of nightlife. He may not see any of them until morning. 

 

He shuffled into the lobby, where the coast was blessedly clear. It was easy enough to sneak down to his hallway. It wasn’t a large hotel, and he’d been graced with rooms convenient to the front doors. The only other person he knew nearby his room was Porthos, who hardly had reason to bother him. He counted himself home free as soon as his key card slid through the lock. The beep as his door unlocked was his favorite sound in the world. 

 

He padded in, sloughing off his wet outerwear and dropping the bag onto the bed and relishing the loud thunk of the door shutting and locking behind him. He toed off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. He couldn’t be bothered to undress more. He just wanted to sink into the soft hotel bed with an open bottle of wine. He’d bought a corkscrew along with the wine  - not even traveling and spur of the moment binge drinking could persuade him to drink a twist top. He fished it and his first random pick from the beck, the cock making a satisfying pop as it sprang free. 

 

He was halfway through the bottle, and starting to feel a little less aching and empty, when someone knocked on the door. Athos froze, the neck of the bottle pressed to his lips. The knock came again. It was quiet - not authoritative. It probably wasn’t an emergency. He could ignore it. 

 

“Athos?” A soft, husky voice called. “You up? I know you’re in there.” 

 

It was Porthos. Athos was frozen. He was at least a little tipsy at this point. It was already going to be embarrassing if he opened the door. He would have to hide the other bottles somewhere. He ought to have shut off the lights. If he shut them off now, Porthos would know he was avoiding him. 

 

“Athos, don’t be a dick.” Porthos sounded plaintive, but playful. Athos felt sick. He could only handle one person figuring out his failings as a human per night. He drank more from the bottle before setting it on the nightstand. He stared at the door. Even when he was trying to be quiet, Porthos was loud. Athos could hear him sigh through the door.

 

Mind still seized by panic, Athos hardly realized that he had crossed the room. He peered out into the hall through the peephole. Porthos stood in front of the door, barefoot and in sweatpants and a old, holey t-shirt. He looked soft and comfortable - and a little exasperated. Perhaps sad.

 

“Look.” He said, voice soft and almost impossible to hear. and Athos was captivated watching him speak. “If you don’t want to see anyone, fine. But you can open the door an’ tell me. This is rude.” 

 

Athos wondered if he knew how close Athos was to the door. If he had been across the room, he wouldn’t have heard the other man speak. Was Porthos just discouraged? Had he been meant to hear that? He hesitated another moment before at last unlatching the door and cracking it open. He peered blearily out at Porthos. 

 

“I am rude.” Was all he could think to say. He stared at Porthos, wondering what he wanted. 

 

Porthos stared back. Athos wondered if the other man was actually unreadable, or if he was just terrible at reading the other man’s expressions. 

 

“You lettin’ me in or not?” Porthos asked, voice brash and shoulders easy. 

 

Athos thought about it. 

 

It was a bad idea. He’d run away from one of his coworkers already today and he could hardly say why. He hadn’t put the wine away. What if Porthos saw it and drew the worst conclusions? The correct conclusions. 

 

Porthos sighed. “I’m comin’ in.” 

 

He shouldered his way through the door, nudging Athos backward. Athos stepped back instinctively to accommodate him. He wasn’t really sure how to tell Porthos no. The bigger man had so much confidence and personality; Athos was pale and thin next to him. 

 

Porthos walked in like he belonged in Athos’ room. Athos could see him notice the wine, and the half-full bottle on the nightstand. His coat and shoes, discarded in a heap. Was he imagining it, or did Porthos’ face look tight? 

 

“Couldn’t sleep.” Porthos told him.He was casual, comfortable. He didn’t look judgmental. “I know Constance is asleep, an’ Aramis still ain’t back, so I figured I’d pester you.” 

 

Athos didn’t know what to say. People usually didn’t want his company. He couldn’t tell Porthos that he’d planned to drink himself to sleep. He couldn’t tell him that he’d upset Aramis, either. Or had Aramis upset him? 

 

Porthos, unimpressed by Athos’ silence, forged ahead. “You sharing that wine?”

 

Athos felt the temptation to shut down, to lock himself away and run like he had with Aramis. He had nowhere to run to now. Porthos had invaded the only territory he had. He hadn’t meant it as a vicious question. Probably. Athos shrugged. 

 

Porthos picked up a pair of glasses from on top of the mini fridge. He ambled over to the open bottle and poured two generous glasses. “I’m gonna help you drink it, then.” 

 

Athos wasn’t sure what to do. The other man seemed completely at home wherever he was. He sat on Athos’ bed - ignoring the perfectly acceptable sofa and office chair - and offered the full glass to Athos, a broad and golden Pan reclining comfortably on white hotel blankets. He’d waltzed into Athos’ space and expected to be welcome. His eyes were still fixed on Athos, but they were warm and welcoming, not mocking. The glass in his hand was tempting beyond reason. Athos approached, wary, waiting for Porthos’ eyes to turn cold or cruel, but they remained kind. He took the glass with care, and Porthos toasted him with his own. 

 

“Drinking with someone is usually more fun than drinking alone. At least, I think so.” Porthos’ eyes twinkled. Athos had never met anyone who oozed so much cheer - except, perhaps, Aramis. He couldn’t find anything to say. Instead, he lifted his glass, grimaced, and drank it all. 

 

Porthos was still looking at him. “C’mon and sit down. Try relaxing.” 

 

Athos looked skeptically at the bed, and then at the sofa across the room. He glared at Porthos for a moment, but Porthos didn’t flinch. He patted the other side of the bed, a broad grin on his face.  

 

Athos moved closer reluctantly, perching on the edge of the mattress. 

 

Porthos chuckled. “That’s better.” He drank from his own glass, and then lifted the bottle again to refill Athos’. 

 

“So, c’mon, talk to me about…not work.”

 

Athos blinked. “What does that leave to talk about?”

 

Porthos looked at him for a moment, and then shook his head. “We gotta get you out more.” 

 

Athos made a low, unhappy noise. 

 

“Or maybe not.” Porthos said. “We can talk about…work-ish things?”

 

“Work-ish?” Athos asked, skeptical.

 

“Yeah. I mean, apart from Constance, we’ve all known each other a while.”

 

Athos knew. It hadn’t made him feel any less like an outsider hearing POrthos say it, even if he had charitably included Constance. Constance had a natural way with people; Athos did not. 

 

“I’m sure you’ve got to be curious about something.” Porthos continued, still eager. “Even if it’s just kinda work related.” 

 

Athos eyed the other man. Now that he mentioned it, he did have a question or two - but they weren’t about anything Porthos would like answering. “Is there something I  _should_  know about?”

 

Porthos hesitated just a little too long.

 

“Porthos.” Athos said, firmly. 

 

“Nah.” Porthos said. “There’s nothin’.” 

 

Athos frowned. Secrets this early on were never a good sign. With such a tight knit staff, he supposed it was bound to happen, but he had hoped this campaign might be different. 

 

“No KKK, no drugs, nothin’ illegal.” Porthos continued. “I promise.” 

 

Athos wasn’t sure. That left a broad selection of other categories still that the press could pick apart. “If there is anything at all, Porthos - anything that might make a good story - They will find it.” 

 

“There won’t be.” Porthos’ face was stony. Athos didn’t particularly feel comforted. He could feel a storm on their horizon; he could only hope they would be prepared, whatever it was. 

 

Porthos looked at him, face plaintive. “Maybe less talk, more wine and tv?”

 

Athos nodded, mute. He relaxed back against the headboard, letting Porthos’ shoulder brush against his as he flipped through channels. He had things to consider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter and it took a few days, i apologiiize


	8. that's the answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> porthos tucks in athos, gets an assistant.

There ain't no answer. There ain't gonna be any answer. There never has been an answer. That's the answer.

Gertrude Stein

 

 

Porthos was in deep trouble. Well, not his trouble - he was deep in Aramis’ trouble. Wasn’t that always the story? He couldn’t do anything about it right now. Right now, the catalyst for this trouble was fast asleep and snoring with his head on Porthos’ shoulder. He’d passed out once they’d finished the whole bottle they’d had to open after the last half of the first bottle had disappeared in less than half an hour. Porthos had drank significantly less than the little communications director. He was floating a little, limbs and head heavy, but had he the inclination to go back to his own room, he would have had the ability. But he was still here, letting Athos sleep on him.

 

He still felt a little guilty for forcing his way into Athos’ room, and his personal space. At first, it had just been because Porthos was lonely. He’d wanted to know Athos a little better. He and Aramis had fallen back into living in each other’s pockets with ease; they orbited each other as if their friendship had its own gravitational pull. Constance had been easy to get to know, and was easy to like, as well. She was charming, and listened as if she actually cared what you were saying. Both of them were completely unavailable at the moment, though.

 

Athos, however, had been a mystery. Elbowing his way into the man’s room — and his apparent drinking binge — hadn’t exactly lent any light on the subject. All Porthos had learned was that he was intruding egregiously, and that Athos could drink a team of carthorses under the table. The other man hadn’t thrown him out, though. Oh, Porthos was sure that the taciturn, shy man had wanted to. But he hadn’t. And what had Porthos done in return? He’d almost given away his best friend’s secret. Anne’s secret. Stupid. To be honest, Athos was right about it. Their affair hadn’t been the best-kept secret at Yale. A number of their old classmates could come forward and tell the press that the presidential hopeful had schtupped one of her speech writers - ten years ago, in university. It wasn’t Porthos’ secret to tell, though. He didn’t even have the right to tell them to come clean, after he’d told Aramis to forget it - and there was the small problem of Louis Jr. An affair ten years ago was one thing, and a love child was another.  He had to hope that Anne knew what to do if it did come to light. Until then, he needed to keep his mouth shut. He had to hope Athos wouldn’t find out, or that at the very least he’d see things like Porthos did.

 

He looked down at the man starting to drool on his shoulder.  He’d expected sleep to smooth Athos’ concerned features - make him appear softer, younger. It hadn’t. He still looked worried. The line between his brows was still deep and furrowed, his mouth still turned down  little at the corners. His deep-set eyes were still shadowed, though at least asleep he didn’t look like he was about to cry. He wondered what had made the other man seem so permanently sad. He didn’t know his history. Athos’ name wasn’t one that was often passed around the political scene. He’d been a campaign consultant for a handful of different races ranging across the political sphere, none of them victorious. Was that what made him seem so run down? His wife — ex-wife — was a United States Representative. Porthos  _had_  heard of her.  She was considered something of a Democratic heavyweight in the Republican-dominated house, but Athos’ name was hardly more than a footnote in her story. He hadn’t heard of any scandal around their divorce. All the same, he couldn’t help feeling sorry for someone so obviously entrenched in a deep, clinging sadness. 

 

He eased out from under Athos’ head, gently laying him back on the plush hotel pillows. Athos didn’t stir. He slept the sleep of the drunken lush. Porthos bustled around the room, picking up the empty wine bottles and putting them in the trash. He pulled Athos' shoes out from under the bed. The empty glasses went on the desk, as did the two remaining full bottles. Had Athos meant to drink them all? That wasn’t just stupid, or poor judgement, it was dangerous. He hadn’t been sharing with anyone before Porthos bullied his way in. He shook his head, tucking Athos into bed with care. Aramis and Anne might need to worry about the past catching up with them, but what would happen when the present caught up with Athos? Porthos hoped this wasn’t part of a bigger problem. Maybe it had been a bad anniversary. Maybe something had happened to him, between when Porthos had left the office and when he had shown up at Athos’ door. Maybe he really had only planned to drink half of the bottle. 

 

There were endless maybes and questions, and Athos wouldn’t be answering them until morning, if he answered them at all. Porthos left a glass of water on the night stand, and returned to his own hotel room. 

 

—

 

The next day was a bustle of activity, and Porthos didn’t gets a chance to talk to Athos at all in between mad dashes to pollsters and failed TV interviews. They were fighting as hard as they could to get Anne somewhere - the last debate had been a feisty affair, that was true, but they’d hardly gotten any talking time around Richelieu’s smooth operating. They needed to drum up interest. Porthos remained confident that they could do this, if they just got their shit together and did it. Savoy was starting to lag in the polls, and Anne was eating up the distance between them. Richelieu still reigned at the top, his numbers hardly showing the strain of the two jockeying beneath him. Porthos expected that. He may have clashed with the rest of the man’s staff, and some of his more moderate decisions, but he couldn’t deny that the older Senator had a gravitas and appeal that would be hard to conquer. Porthos could only see one way for this election to move forward, and it was long, drawn out, and dirty. Richelieu wasn't an evil man by nature, but he wouldn't play fair. That wasn't how men like Richelieu did politics. 

 

They had a long road ahead of them. 

 

Porthos didn’t make it to his shoebox office until 9:30. He was too busy consulting with Anne, corralling a fidgety Aramis, and trying to keep the entire damned place from setting itself on fire. 

 

His office was tiny, and he hardly spent any time in it anyway. It was cramped, and full of boxes that leant ominously over a desk so tiny that he banged his knees every time he tried to sit at it. He preferred to sit at Aramis’ desk, propping his feet on the other man’s chair as they tossed ideas back and forth. He only returned to the little storage closet to check the messages on the ancient landline that he still hadn’t figured out how to forward to his cell. 

 

There was already someone in his office. There was a woman in his office. There was a petite, dark-haired woman in his office and on his phone. Porthos stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowed in confusion. She informed whoever was on the other end of the line that he wasn’t in his office and that she could take a message for him. She then actually  _did_  take a message for him. He was still staring at her when she finished, hung up, and finally looked up to acknowledge the man whose office she was running. 

 

“Hi, can I help you?” She smiled at him. It was, to be fair, a nice smile. 

 

Porthos stared at her. She kept smiling back, looking a little confused. 

 

“I’m Porthos DuVallon.” He said, voice pointed.  She stared back, her smiling faltering slightly. 

 

“Oh. …Oh!” Her eyes widened. “I’m Alice, Alice Clarbeaux. I’m your new assistant?”

 

“Nice to meet you, Alice.” He replied automatically. “…I have an assistant?”

 

“New one, yes.” Her smile was back full force, charming and confident. “I talked to the woman at Volunteers? Um, Claire? Clara?” 

 

“Maddie?” Porthos said, skeptically. 

 

“Yes! And she sent me over, just to help out, she said the paperwork should clear soon, you know how it is.” She was perky and self-assured. She had to be lying. 

 

“Okay.” Porthos replied slowly. “I’ll just ring her and have her send a runner with it, speed the process up a little.” 

 

“You don’t need to do that.” She smiled and put a quick, nervous hand on the phone. 

 

Porthos raised an eyebrow. “Maddie didn’t send you, did she.”

 

Alice bit her lip, her bright smile wavering. 

 

Porthos sighed. “Look, I don’t need an assistant. I’m good. And sneakin’ in isn’t the best way to land a job.”

 

Her face continued to fall. “I think you’re wrong - I mean, you do need me.” 

 

Porthos groaned. “Alice.”

 

“I can organize and answer phones, and keep a calendar, and tell you about meetings - “ 

 

“That’s why I have Siri, Alice.” Porthos huffed. 

 

“You don’t even know how to make Siri do that.” She fired back. 

 

He sighed again. He wasn’t going to tell her she was right. He had to keep his head on straight. “Look, we can’t afford a personal assistant just for me.” 

 

“You don’t have to pay me.” She said quickly. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m, um, I studied Political Science at Duke and I’m really - I’m really invested in this campaign. I would do this for the experience.” 

 

“You wanna be an unpaid intern with a bachelor’s degree in this economy?” He crossed his arms, eyeing her in disbelief. 

 

She shifted, awkward. “Well, ah, you see…"

 

He sighed. “You didn’t graduate.”

 

“Not exactly, no.” She admitted, looking frustrated and a little ashamed. “I was a semester off, that’s all.”

 

“So you don’t have a degree. I don’t need a PA. We travel, we fly, we’re only in the state for another few weeks and I can’t buy you a plane ticket.”

 

“I’ll hitchhike and sleep on floors if I have to.” She looked fierce. 

 

Porthos stared at her. Nobody wanted to work without pay for a tiny political campaign that, unless it had a wild upset, wouldn't even look good on a resume. “What’re you running from?” He asked her, suddenly serious.

 

She froze, her nervous energy and ferocity stopped in its tracks. “I’m not running from anything.”

 

“Sure.” He stared her down, unconvinced.

 

She stared back, her eyes flinty and wild. No. He would not give in. He would not. No matter what everyone said, he was not a bleeding heart. 

 

“C’mon.” He rubbed his temples. “Significant other? Family problems? What’re you tryin’ to get away from?”

 

She kept looking at him, cold and wary, but he was convinced he could see her resolve wavering.

 

“Look,” He went on. “This isn’t the kind of place you go to to get over an ex, or to piss off your dad —"

 

“He died, actually.” She snapped. “My husband.”

 

“Oh.” Now Porthos felt like and ass. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” She told him, with the matter-of-factness of someone who’d given it some thought. 

 

“I really am sorry, though.” Porthos rubbed his hands through his hair. Always putting his foot in it, that was him. “Still, this…isn’t a great environment for healing, either.” God knows plenty of them were trying anyway. 

 

“I don’t need healing, Mr.DuVallon.” Alice was sharp like steel and Porthos was a little scared of her. “I need job experience. Funds to go back to school, someday. I…” and she wavered again.

 

He studied her face. “…You quit school for him?”

 

She nodded. “It — made sense at the time.”

 

Porthos was such a sucker. He knew he was. “We do crazy things for love.”

 

“It wasn’t what I would call - love.” She looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

He watched her for a moment, trying to figure her out. He had a soft sport for puzzles. “He was older than you?”

 

She couldn’t be more than thirty, if that. He’d thought perhaps she’d lost her equally young and handsome husband in a tragedy; but there was little about her that looked…tragic. She looked tired, and like she had very little left in the world. She just nodded. “The marriage was - well, it was a sound business decision. My father liked him. They were both practical men. He thought I’d be well taken care of. Now I’ve got to go back and take care of myself again, that’s all. But this job - I can do this. I can be good at this. I can be  _really_  good at this.” 

 

She had an endearing mix of resolve and hope, with a dash of desperation that was hard to say no to. 

 

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The handset started to ring again as she stared at him, equal parts imploring and insisting. He couldn’t even make eye contact with her while thinking about telling her to get out. 

 

“Well, are you gonna answer that?” He grumbled. 

 

“What?” She blinked. 

 

He gestured to the ringing phone. “Go on.” 

 

A smile gradually overtook her face again. “You mean it?”

 

“Yeah, I mean it, as long as you answer it before they hang up, or I’m gonna have second thoughts.”

 

She lunged for the phone, picking it up and answering it with gusto. “Hello, Anne Bourbon Campaign Committee, you’ve reached the office of Porthos DuVallon. May I ask what this call is in reference to?”

 

Porthos smiled and shook his head, retreating away from his office. She could brief him on his messages later. For now, he needed to go and talk to Maddie and see about getting Alice Clarbeaux on payroll. Anne was going to love this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boom surprise alice, i fucking love alice


	9. you look like shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the team gets ready for the second democratic debate; Aramis struggles to keep secrets.

"In our age there is no such thing as 'keeping out of politics.' All issues are political issues, and politics itself is a mass of lies, evasions, folly, hatred and schizophrenia."

George Orwell

 

 

Everything seemed fine. It was the fact that everything seemed fine that was driving Aramis to distraction. It had been over a week since he’d sent Athos running into the night, and he was pretty sure the other man was avoiding him. It was hard to tell; Athos had never been the most forthcoming person. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t speaking to Aramis at all. They spoke about the campaign, and Athos was as brutal with Aramis’ speech drafts as he’d always been. He certainly hadn’t been any more harsh than usual. But he’d also stopped just…chatting with Aramis. There was no more mischief. Before, Aramis had started to think they were starting to break the ice. Now, it seemed like Athos’ walls had slammed back up overnight, twice as high and three times as thick. He’d tried cornering Athos to apologize, again, but Athos had been practically running from any situation that got them alone together. 

 

Aramis wasn’t the best at confrontation. Not in situations like this. So, he had just…let it happen. He didn’t know what would fix it, so he did nothing. Unfortunately, it ate away at him all the same. It hadn’t seemed to affect Athos’ work, but Aramis was struggling not to let it distract him. He had to get his head back into the game tonight. Tonight was a big fucking deal. He couldn’t let himself be anything other than his best, not if they wanted Anne to be at her best. Their showing at the first Democratic Debate had been…acceptable, but nothing extraordinary, easily chalked up to their newness as a team together. Richelieu had dominated the floor, and with good reason. Tonight was their chance to steal that floor from him. Anne had the charisma, and the caring. She just needed the proper tools for the fight. He needed to focus  on that, and not on Athos’ mysterious feelings. 

 

Which meant he should stop staring at the back of Athos’ head and instead stare back at the information they had on possible debate topics. They’d already gone over these time and time again, and Anne ought to know what to say backwards and forwards, but Treville had him squeezing everything he could out of every drop of time they had. Aramis’ biggest worry was that their message and talking points would be too close to the Senator’s. Athos had suggested, and Porthos and Anne agreed, that their angle should lean heavily on women, minority, and youth votes - areas where Richelieu had the most difficulty. 

 

It ought to be easy enough, with Anne’s favorable voting record and aggressive support for the fair wage and pro choice movements; they’d had meetings scheduled with several different civil rights activist groups throughout the week, building up a rapport and making sure their campaign stayed informed. Richelieu was still refusing to talk to the majority of them, so they were at least ahead of him there. 

 

Aramis felt a headache coming on.

 

“You all right?” Porthos had set up camp at Aramis’ desk once more, feet on the corner least over taken by paper and his office left in Alice’s capable and occasionally terrifying hands. 

 

“Yeah,” Aramis muttered, straightening up.

 

“You don’t look all right.” Porthos’ usually bright face was twisting into a concerned frown. Porthos has seemed especially concerned about everything for the past week. 

 

“I’m just - thinking about how I’m thinking.” Aramis explained. “It’s a dangerous habit.” He tried to smile reassuringly at Porthos, but it was more than half a grimace. 

 

Porthos rumbled in agreement, his warm brown eyes studying Aramis with fondness and worry. “What’re you thinking?” 

 

Aramis swiveled his chair from side to side and steepled his fingers. “I keep…thinking of issues just as talking points. Like all that matters is the winning or losing.” 

 

“It’s important.” Porthos said, his voice gentle. 

 

“But people’s lives shouldn’t be a score.” Aramis replied, frustrated. This was his least favorite part of politics. 

 

“Nah, they shouldn’t.” Porthos smiled. “Which is why you stop, and you think about that. Aramis, just doin’ that is more than most other people would do.” 

 

Aramis sighed, and smiled at his old friend. “Thanks. I’m not sure that’s true, but it helps a little.” 

 

Porthos nodded. “You’re a good man, Aramis. We’ll run a clean campaign, and we’ll help people.”

 

Aramis nodded, a little more confidently. “I would just rather help people than stand around fighting about the tax percentage cost of doing so.” 

 

“I know,” Porthos sighed. “And we will. But we only can after we win.” 

 

Aramis wasn’t sure how much that soothed his troubled soul, but they were out of time to talk about it. Treville stepped out of his office, beckoning to the two of them and Athos. Anne had already been in there for an hour - whatever Aramis had gotten done would have to be enough. 

 

Athos rose smoothly and strode into the de facto chief of staff’s office with neat, restrained purpose. Aramis tried to look half as put together as the smaller man somehow did. 

 

It was impressive how much dignity and gravitas Treville had packed into such a small office. It was hardly bigger than Porthos’, though better organized, with just enough room for Treville’s desk and chair - probably as old as the building itself - as well as two rickety extra chairs for visitors. Anne was currently perched in Treville’s heavy antique desk chair, her fingers tapping distractedly on the scuffed wood surface of the desk. Treville - who Aramis wasn’t sure he’d ever seen sitting still - was standing with his hip against the corner of the desk. Aramis was sure the older statesman would be pacing before the meeting was over. 

 

Aramis folded himself into the cheap plastic chair opposite the desk, and after a long moment, Athos took a seat in its twin beside him. Porthos was a comforting wall of heat at Aramis’ back; he liked sitting down and staying put no more than his mentor did. 

 

Anne smiled at the three of them, the tiredness vanishing from her bright eyes. “It’s been a long week, gentlemen, and I appreciate all of the work you’ve been doing. Tonight is crunch time, so I’m asking you honestly - do you think we’re ready?”

 

Aramis took a deep breath and killed the urge to look over his shoulder at Porthos. 

 

“They’re gonna be asking some hard questions on Daesh.” Porthos’ deep voice was a reassuring rumble that Aramis could actually feel reverberate on his skin. 

 

“We don’t have to take an offensive there - I don’t think we want to.” Aramis cleared his throat, pushing back any timidity in his voice. 

 

“You don’t want to come out hard against a terrorist group?” Athos asked him dryly. It was the first thing Athos had said to him all day. 

 

“That’s not what I meant.” Aramis scowled, glancing at him.

 

“That’s what they’ll hear.” Athos’ eyes were glacial as they flicked over to Aramis, boring into him. Aramis wondered if this conversation had more than one level - if Athos was still upset with the hasty words Aramis hadn’t meant to offend him with days ago. But no, Athos was a professional, this was work, and he needed to focus. 

 

“I’m just saying - obviously we oppose them. But we don’t want to give them the attention they’re begging for, and we don’t want to cause a backlash against an entire religion or race of people for the actions of an extremist cell.” Aramis replied, frustrated. He knew that Athos knew what he meant, in this case. The other man was prodding at his phrasing again, pushing him to make it tighter, neater, and less easy to twist. It was a fair goal, but frustrating beyond belief. 

 

“I’ll use my judgement.” Anne said firmly, ending their back and forth. Aramis and Athos both looked a little cowed.  

 

“There was gunfire at a civil rights protest last night; three people injured, looks like the perpetrators were white supremacists.” Porthos sighed, glancing at a piece of paper. “Haven’t got much else on it, but it looks like nobody’s critical.”

 

“I’ll extend my sympathies to the victims and their families,” Anne murmured. “And remind Richelieu and the country that we are founded on equality and freedom to dissent from the ruling class.”

 

“Better not put it like that.” Treville snorted. “They’ll talk like you’re a crazy trying to lead a revolution.”

 

“They wouldn’t be wrong.” Anne smiled slightly. “Though I think the people are doing more revolution leading than I am, at this point. Does the group itself have anything for me? Have we contacted them? I’d like to call them later and check on the wounded, at least. Without the press nosing around.”

 

“I’ll get the phone number for you after the debate.” Aramis nodded. 

 

“Other than that,” Treville cleared his throat. “I think we’ve got a good foundation.” He glanced sidelong at Anne, with a face that said he was feeling a little reluctant about his next question. “Have you given any more thought to the idea of opening up to corporate donations?”

 

Anne’s eyes flashed at her chief advisor, her mouth set in a stern frown. “You know I hate that idea, John.”

 

Aramis knew, that was for sure. He - and the rest of the office - had overheard plenty of shouting matches between the two on this subject. 

 

“Small private donations have sustained us thus far, I’ll agree to that.” Treville looked like he was at the epicenter of a four-day migraine. “But god willing we win this primary, those donations are going to be nothing compared to what the GOP drums up.” 

 

“I don’t care.” Anne snapped. “These corporations have already donated to Richelieu and the Republicans. They’re not backing ideas for the country, they’re hedging their bets and paying to back their interests. I can dip into Louis’ and I’s personal funds if I must. I will not be beholden to the Koch brothers.” 

 

“You’re not going to win.” Porthos chuckled. “Just give up, Captain.” 

 

Treville huffed. “Damn you all, you bleeding heart liberals.” he said, with fondness. 

 

Anne smiled. “Good, we’ve established I’m right. Again. What’s next?” 

 

Aramis couldn’t help the fond look he gave her, the slightest smile tugging at his lips. This campaign was reminding him of all of the things he’d once loved about her. Her fire, her righteousness, her intelligence. Her heart. The feelings had changed, but he still adored her. 

 

“Taxation.” He chirped, whipping out his charts with perverse enthusiasm - because he was also a little shit. 

 

The others groaned as he started laying out graphs and binders. “It wouldn’t be so bad if I only had to explain it once.” Anne grumbled. 

 

Aramis beamed at her, his eyes twinkling. He only felt his heart shudder for half a beat, this time. 

 

He launched into their latest misunderstandings with the tax coverage, feeling content until he glanced at Athos and saw the man watching him much more intently than a discussion on taxes warranted. His icy eyes flicked from Aramis, to Anne, and back. This time, Aramis felt his heart stop entirely for several beats. 

 

 

—

 

Aramis had been watching the debates on the little television provided to their green room. Most of the interns had been allowed to head home and watch it - Anne kept only a small crew on site. The only ones here at the auditorium now were him, Athos, Porthos, Treville, Constance, and Alice. Constance hadn’t stopped scribbling in her notebook all night, except for when she was talking rapidly and animatedly with the press. She ran back and forth from the green room to the wings of the stage to the press office and back, like a particularly bloody-minded hummingbird. 

 

Debate nights were madness. Not only did Anne have to be on and ready for anything, they all did. Constance covered most of the spin and leasing with the press, thank god, but that didn’t stop the vultures from wanting soundbites from the entire campaign staff. 

 

Treville was an impressive bastion of strength at their head, with Porthos steady, strong, and reliable at his elbow. His fondness for Anne and unshakeable confidence did them all credit, especially when backed up by Porthos’ fiery enthusiasm and innate sweetness. Aramis, thank god, was still mostly behind the scenes. He may have been Anne’s foremost speechwriter, but he wasn’t confident in his own credentials for talking to the press. He tended to film well, and Constance has insisted multiple times that he ought to be their pretty face for the campaign staff, but he tended to get muddled without his talking points written out in front of him. 

 

Athos, who was at least on paper qualified to talk to the press, had the magical ability to disappear every time a journalist or cameraman came anywhere near their little ready room. Treville had begun to develop a tic in his jaw that Aramis was sure was due to the caginess of their foremost political advisor. 

 

Breaks in the debate seemed to be a whirlwind of activity. Aramis was whisked away on one to talk to some kind of political Analyst roundtable - Constance’s grip on his elbow was inescapable - and he chatted inanely about Anne’s qualifications with people who had little interest in her as a honest candidate. 

 

“Does the Congresswoman have any concerns about balancing her work and home life?” They asked, looking as vapid and empty headed in person as they had always seemed on TV. “She does have two young children to look after.”

 

Aramis tried not to roll his eyes on national television. “I think Congresswoman Bourbon is quite experienced in mixing her political work and family life, as she has been for several years now, and of course her husband is endlessly supportive and very much enjoys helping to care for their children…”

 

They’d asked some variation on the babies question in every interview for the past six weeks. 

 

“Is there any truth to the rumors that their marriage has been rocky in the past? Do you think the campaign will strain their marriage?” 

 

Aramis tried not to jolt or give their first question any more attention than it deserved. He wanted to focus his mind on his ire over them refusing to ask any worthwhile policy questions - not on how close they might be to unearthing something they hadn’t prepared to deal with yet. 

 

“I’m not sure how much I can speak for the past, but I have not seen a stronger husband and wife team in all my years in the private or public sector. I think her stance on the issues is more relevant than worrying about her marriage, if you’ll forgive me - Her marriage has stood the test of time, and Louis is very supportive of her goals. Right now, Congresswoman Bourbon is focused on the future of America.” 

 

“Did you go to school with Anne Bourbon?” The host’s voice was still light and airy, and Aramis tried not to tense up.

 

“Several of us on the campaign attended the same school at the same time, actually. Anne, I believe, was several years above myself and the other staffer, but I can say for certain that the Congresswoman has always been charismatic and confident, and knowing her better as I do now, an excellent leader.”

 

The conversation turned by bits and halves, and Aramis breathed a little easier. That could have gone very bad very quickly - he’d almost expected it to. How much longer could they avoid these facts? How long until the headlines appeared about how Anne Bourbon has used to fuck one of her senior campaign staff?

 

He escaped as soon as he was able, making his way back to their ready room before he started to shake. He’d beaten the others back, and could hear the candidates making their way toward the stage. 

 

“You look like shit.”

 

Aramis swore and jumped. He hadn’t seen Athos, folded up in a chair in the shadowy corner of the green room. “Fuck, do you have to be that sneaky?”

 

Athos stood, his movements wavering but dainty. He was cradling a glass of wine in one hand, and his eyes were hot, bright, and tipsy. It was a startling change from their usual cool detachment. “Why do you look like shit, Aramis?”

 

Aramis had already had his back to the door, and had nowhere to retreat from Athos’ inexorable approach. “You know what talking to the press is like.” 

 

Athos’ head tilted, curious and hawklike. Aramis was sure his heart was hammering audibly in his chest. He felt like prey. 

 

“There’s something you’ve decided not to tell me.” Athos murmured, swirling his glass lazily. “Porthos knows, though, doesn’t he?” 

 

Aramis swallowed. “Athos — “ 

 

“It would be very disappointing to hear it from the press.” Athos continued, growling. This was more than he’d spoken to Aramis in weeks. Aramis’ face was hot, his mouth open and moving without sound. He didn’t know what to say, and his throat felt like it was full of wadded up cotton. Athos was close, his eyes swimming from the wine but still sharp and vicious under the thin layer of alcohol. Aramis didn’t doubt that in this moment, he wouldn’t be able to lie to the other man.

 

The handle of the door turned, digging into Aramis’ back. The wood bumped against his shoulder blades and both men leapt out of the way as Treville, Constance, and Porthos shuffled into the room.

 

“Sorry, sorry, I need in or I’m going to murder someone.” Constance bounded straight for the coffee machine, the light of murder definitely in her eyes. 

 

Athos still hadn’t broken eye contact with Aramis. He collapsed back into his chair, sipping his wine, and Aramis knew that they may have been interrupted by their loud and boisterous crew for now - but this conversation was not yet over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay on this chapter aaaah I haven't updated since before halloween 
> 
> a list, for those trying to keep track at home:
> 
> Anne is our Bartlet  
> Treville is our Leo (sans drinking problems, which are of course largely Athos' territory)  
> Athos is our Toby,  
> Aramis our Sam,   
> Porthos is Josh  
> Constance is CJ  
> and Alice is Donna. 
> 
> more people to come eventually, I swear.


	10. knowing what you want to achieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a day in the life of constance

"Truth is absolute, truth is supreme, truth is never disposable in national political life."

John Howard

 

 

Constance was sure her tension headache was permanent by now. She hadn't stopped moving since the night of that first debate - at least, that's how she felt. Every day was another day in constant movement, talking, trying to fight their way to a seat at the table. Now, she couldn't sleep. Spring had appeared around them at some point, the warmth almost making up for the complete wash that had been Iowa. The snow was still melting, there. In Wisconsin, the wind at 6am was bitter, but the day would be sunny. 

They'd swept the last six primary states, with leads in the double digits. Richelieu's camp was starting to look nervous. She wondered if they were sleeping well at night? Did they stay up, worried about what she was doing? Was there another press secretary across town, unable to sleep in for fear of Constance Bonacieux? 

There was a thought. She sighed, sliding out of her hotel sheets and into her slippers and robe. Someone afraid of her, of all people. She patted her pockets, assured that her guilty secret was securely in place, and padded out of her room. She wasn't going to sleep now. She knew herself well enough to know that. She shuffled down the stairs and out one of the back doors, closing the door with care behind her. The light outside was still pale and pinkish-gray. The sun hadn't quite risen, and the air was still cold. She pulled her robe tighter around herself, and was thankful that she was still wearing her flannel pajamas even in April. 

The secret service stiffs that they'd been lent were still asleep. They had rooms all around Anne's suite; their campaign had finally warranted them showing up. It meant that the hotels had gotten nicer - and Anne's plane flights, too. Constance missed the continental breakfasts and free wi-fi from their early days in motels. She'd go in and buy coffee when the little cafe in the lobby opened, but it wasn't the same. There were no waffles awaiting her there, ready and hot at 7am. 

So instead, here she was, standing out in the cold outside a swanky hotel. Off to one side and hopefully out of sight, where she could indulge a habit she thought she'd kicked a year and a half ago. 

"I didn't know you smoked." 

Constance almost jumped out of her skin. She hadn't heard Anne's approach, even though she was trailed by a pair of men in dark suits and absurd expensive sunglasses. 

"I meant to quit." She admitted, exhaling guiltily. 

Anne was already dressed - how did she do that? Constance was aware of her faded blue flannel under the hotel's robe, her hair still a tangled mess. She hadn't even showered yet. She wondered sometimes if Anne was entirely real. 

"Having trouble?" Her eyes and voice seemed kind, instead of judgmental. 

Constance sighed, rolling the cigarette in her fingers. "It stinks, and it's gross. I stopped for over a year - I hated it, Jaques hated it. But I guess this campaign is more stressful than Hollywood promoting. Who'd have guessed?" 

Anne smiled at her. "Are you saying your smoking habit's my fault?" 

Constance was surprised for a moment, before she realized Anne was teasing her. She let out a surprised laugh and took another drag, blowing the smoke toward the rising sun.

"No, I'm saying that my smoking habit doesn't exist." She smiled ruefully at Anne. 

"Oh, I'll keep your secret." Anne grinned and winked. 

"Thank you," Constance sighed. "I've got so much on my plate right now - not that you don't, my gosh, obviously - " 

"Really, Constance, it's okay." Anne laughed. The morning sunlight shone in her blonde hair like a halo, and Constance just kept wondering when the other shoe would fall. No one could honestly be like this. 

"We all have a lot on our plates," Anne continued, conspiratorial. "I'm just glad you haven't all left me yet." 

Constance shook her head. It wasn't just that Anne looked like something out of a fairytale - the textbook illustration of the Good Queen, even against the backdrop of a dirty stucco hotel wall. She had light inside and outside of her, a fairy queen in looks and Joan of Arc when pressed to speech. "Never, ma'am. None of us are going anywhere." 

Anne beamed, her smile as bright and genuine as it always was. "I couldn't do this without all of you." 

Constance believed her.  More than that, Constance believed that Anne believed it. 

They stood in companionable quiet until Constance stubbed out her cigarette and they went inside. It left Constance floating, feeling as if there was still something right in the world.

 

 

 

That short, warm conversation carried Constance through the rest of the day. She had six phone calls, four online conferences, three skype interviews, and an inbox full of emails. Two of the phone calls could have been emails, and about fifteen of the emails ought to have been phone calls. At least one of the reporters on the other end of the skype calls hadn't actually known how to use skype. Still, on the bright side, there was something for her to do now. They'd had difficulties with the media in the past - That is, the media had more or less ignored them in the past. Now that Savoy had limped out of the race and Anne was eating up the distance between Richelieu and herself, they were coming around for the stories they could have had three weeks ago. 

There was a hair thin margin between the two candidates, and it was only getting smaller. It was nerve-wracking. Constance worked hard to keep up with the media's demands - and their little fibs and outright slander. She couldn't remember the last bit of rest - real rest - that she'd had. Every publication in the country was trying to poke holes in Anne Bourbon's candidacy. 

It was easy enough to see why so many of them were predicting Richelieu's candidacy, as much as Constance hated to admit it. He was experienced, smart, and ruthless with a veneer of piety. Treville had known him well, once - or did know him? John was undeniably cagey about his personal relationship with the Senator, speaking of him in equal parts frustration and strange fondness. 

To be honest, had Rochefort - who Porthos still referred to as "the slimy little snake" - not joined his campaign, and had Anne never put forth herself, Constance would have voted for the man. He wasn't always the kindest, but he was clever, and seemed like the kind of man to stop at nothing to achieve something. Not everyone may see that as a positive, she would concede. 

Anne had given her hope, though; hope for something more. She couldn't let go of that. Even if she really, really, really wanted a nap. 

She couldn't even remember making it to eight in the evening. The last thing she recalled with clarity was that pink, smoke-hazy morning with Anne. The rest of the day was a blur of interviews and conferences. She blessed whatever god had seen fit to outfit their Wisconsin office with swivel chairs. That was about as much as her brain could currently process - the gentle sway from right to left. Right, left. Right, left. All the way around. She craned her neck over the back of the chair and let out a long, deep sigh. 

"Tell us how you really feel, Constance." Aramis popped into her field of vision. Even now, he looked just as bloody-minded and cheerful as when he'd started the day. Chalk another one up to the "how are you even real" list. 

"What _is_ it with you people and appearing out of nowhere?" She groused, rubbing her eyes. 

"You look positively exhausted, my lovely friend." Now he was sitting on her desk. He had to want something. 

"What do you need, Aramis?" She sighed again. 

"I'm wounded. I don't  _only_ come to you when I need something." He pouted. 

She squinted at him in suspicion. "What do you  _want,_ Aramis."

He sighed. "Well.I'd retract my impending invite to drinks on the basis of your poor attitude, but I suppose it seems like you need it..." 

Constance immediately perked up. "Wait, are we going out?" 

"Only if you've nothing better to do." Aramis laughed. 

Constance was starting to feel some mysterious, untapped source of energy. "When do we leave?" 

"Porthos is still convincing Alice, and someone has to wrangle Athos." Aramis grinned, but Constance suspected he wasn't about to be the one volunteering to collect their taciturn coworker. 

"I'll get Athos." She volunteered, and she could swear she felt the relief pouring off of him. 

Aramis and Athos had been behaving...oddly around each other. For months. Athos looked strange and intense every time they crossed paths; Aramis, for his part, seemed to be avoiding letting that happen. They both thought they were being subtle. They weren't. It added an uncomfortable tension to the campaign - they were meant to be working closely together, crafting Anne's message into something that could reach as many people as possible. Instead, they were barely capable of working together. Even the usually unflappable Porthos was starting to send them both concerned looks. 

Constance decided then that she'd get Athos to come out, and come hell or high water, those boys were going to be _friendly_ tonight.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long hiatus! school and work happened. also, i am somewhat late because of who i am as a person.


	11. in politics there is no honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a brief cameo of ~~who~~ what Treville's been doing, and a long awaited confrontation

> "We live in a world where finding fault in others seems to be the favorite blood sport. It has long been the basis of political campaign strategy. It is the theme of much television programming across the world. It sells newspapers. Whenever we meet anyone, our first, almost unconscious reaction may be to look for imperfections."
> 
> Henry B. Eyring

 

 

 

Treville stayed in his office until the hoards of other staff had stampeded out into the night. The interns could never wait to get out of the building, that was a given, but tonight even Athos had been pulled into the festivities. He spared a moment of sympathy for the other man. Treville didn't socialize because he was a little too old for the team's rambunctious youthfulness - Athos just wasn't suited for it. Hadn't been suited to it from birth, most likely. It wouldn't take long for Athos to disappear on them. 

Treville decided to call it a night around seven or eight, in fact, but felt compelled to wait. He didn't want anyone to question where he was going. He didn't want to lie to them. Or, likely as not, be swept into some overenthusiastic attempt at bonding. No, he had places to be - for better or worse.

He typed a quick message on his phone, and before he could think  better of it, hit send.

_are you done pretending to work yet?_

His fingers beat a staccato rhythm against his desk.

He shouldn't have sent that. 

Nothing could make what he was doing safe. No amount of precautions taken would absolve them entirely. There was risk here - real risk, inherent risk, which could lose him his entire career, his reputation. If people knew - If they found out. It would be the end of everything. Anne would never forgive him. Hell, he wouldn't forgive himself, either. 

He wasn't even sure he liked the man.

His phone buzzed. 

_I get more done in a day than you could in a month._

He could almost hear the other man's supercilious voice. Don't text him back immediately, he told himself. He wasn't that gone yet. Maybe if he waited long enough, the impulse to respond would fade completely. That would certainly be better. 

It didn't. 

It took half an hour for him to sneak across town. Thankfully, he still flew more or less under the radar. It was completely safe, or at least he could fool himself into thinking it was - right up until the moment he was standing outside of the hotel. He stared up at it, his collar turned up against the drizzle and to conceal his face. The hotel was nicer than theirs. Big surprise. 

It was just like Armand to keep him waiting. Even this was a power play - waiting to see if Treville would stay, if he would risk being seen. If he had sense or pride left, he would leave. 

The side-door he stood outside beeped softly and clicked open. 

"Don't stand in the rain, John."

Too late. Armand was watching him from the open door, his face a mix of amusement and annoyance. 

Armand Richelieu was handsome. He has a sharp, clever face, always expressive. He was tall, and lean, and always seemed slightly bored. His good looks were a little spoiled by the perpetual sour look on his face, his brows forever furrowed in heavy thought. John had told him once that Constance called it his resting bitch face, and Armand had refused to speak to him for nearly two weeks. It was one of John's fondest memories. 

"I had to wait for you to get the damned door, didn't I?"

It was odd to walk down the hall bracketed by secret service. John was getting more and more used to it in recent months, and he knew - technically - that he had nothing to fear. Rumors of his and Armand's little meetings would be a logistical nightmare, and damage Anne's trust in him irreparably. The secret service, though, would remain silent. They had seen far more scandalous things than two old rivals having a drink in a hotel suite. He just had to keep telling himself that. They would never know what happened once the doors closed, at least, because Armand had them leave after they'd reached their destination. 

Armand never gave Treville time to think too hard. He had an irritating habit of tugging John along by the tie. John had to pretend he hated it, growling about damaging the silk even as he pressed his lips under Armand's jaw. 

"If you hated me," Armand purred, fisting his hand in the knot of John's tie, "you wouldn't be here."

Treville growled, shoving the other man onto the neatly made hotel bed. The problem was that he didn't know if Armand was wrong.  

\--

Across town, Athos had tried to escape three times now. Constance had caught him the first two times, but she'd supplied him with a new, full glass each time. That had preoccupied him long enough for her to steer him back to their table, which was becoming increasingly rowdy. 

The third time, Alice was the one who cut him off and pressed a fresh glass of wine into his hand. He leveled his coldest glare at her - after all, she wasn't Constance. 

"Constance is in the bathroom." She didn't look impressed. "I'm filling in."

"She deputized you?" Athos scowled. That seemed absurd. 

"It's a big job, apparently." Alice had started to circle him and gently herd him back to their corner. 

"Why can't I just go to bed?" He groused, already sipping from his new glass. 

"Bonding, Mr. de la Fere." Alice told him, her voice firm. She pressed him back into his seat with a surprisingly strong hand to the shoulder. 

She was gone again as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving him staring morosely into a half-full glass of wine. If he looked up, he'd have to look at either Porthos or Aramis, as the rest of their party had fanned out throughout the bar. He wasn't sure he could right now. 

Instead, he tossed his head back and finished the glass in two smooth swallows. He set the empty glass down in front of him, decisive, and made to stand again - 

A shot glass was planted firmly in front of him before he could move. 

He glanced around from under his shaggy fringe. Everyone had them. Oh no. 

"Shots!" Constance proclaimed aggressively. She was being insistent tonight, and it was...concerning. Athos made a small, mournful noise. 

"What did you bring us?" Aramis asked, eyeing his glass suspiciously. 

"It's only tequila." Alice chirped from Constance's elbow. She was holding an actual salt shaker and a napkin full of limes. Aramis rolled his eyes, and Porthos' eyebrows were climbing higher and higher. 

No. This was absurd. "No, this is absurd." Athos wanted no part in it. 

"Live a little." Constance huffed, collapsing back into her seat. 

"Shan't." He grumbled back, picking up the glass. 

"So, we agree now that nothing from this point on ever happened?" Aramis asked, reaching for his own. 

"I'll drink to that." Porthos chuckled. Alice beamed, folding back into her own seat. 

"I'm not getting out of this." Athos muttered to his glass. 

"No, you're not." Constance grinned, smug. 

"C'mon, Athos, for the team building." Porthos smiled at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Athos' stomach wobbled a little bit. 

He wondered if he was getting sick. That would be all right. He could go home if he got sick. 

The others were enjoying the ritual of it all, passing out salt and limes cheerfully. Athos met Porthos' eyes for a moment when they both stared as Aramis' tongue darted out over the inside of his wrist. Athos flushed, looking away, and picked his glass up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Porthos do the same to his own wrist - his dark eyes burning into the side of Athos' head. 

Athos tossed the shot back like water, not bothering with any frills. The others were right behind him, taking salt, shot, and lime in unison with a cheer and a round of uncontrollable coughing from half of them. Another night, he may have found it funny. 

Athos escaped while Alice and Constance's eyes were still watering. He hurried out the back this time, his path wavering. His knees shook, and he had to lean against the dirty alley wall. 

The door opened and slammed shut again behind him. He braced himself for Constance to take him by the ear and drag him back again. 

"Athos," Aramis mumbled, still pulling the lime out of his mouth and struggling for a little drunken dignity. 

Athos stared at him. He couldn't decide what to feel. He felt hot, embarrassed, shaky over only a split second of interaction from inside. An interaction that Aramis hadn't even been a knowing part of. But beyond that, he still felt a little flush of anger at the other man. He tried to hold onto that, to remember why, but the world was spinning. 

"Athos, don't leave," Aramis wavered slightly, his legs just as untrustworthy as Athos' own. 

Athos glared at him, uncertain. 

"Don't leave" Aramis muttered. "I'll leave." 

Athos' brow furrowed. How was that...? "That doesn't make sense." 

Aramis frowned, probably realizing the truth of that. God, they shouldn't have had that much to drink. "You're mad at me." 

"I don't want to be here, and I want to go home." Athos managed to bite out. 

"Why?" Aramis swayed closer. 

There were a thousand or more answers on the tip of Athos' tongue, all of them too real and too vulnerable to say. None of them sounded quite right, either, why did - 

No. He remembered. 

"You lied to me." He hissed, rounding on Aramis and staring into Aramis' startled face. 

Aramis took a step back, took a sharp breath in. "Athos -" 

Athos growled. "Don't argue." 

Aramis took another step back, bumping into the wall opposite Athos, wrapping his arms around himself. Athos waited, ignoring the mud and piss smell in the damp back alley. He could wait all night. He'd remembered now, and he wasn't going to let it go. 

"I want answers, Aramis," he snarled again. "Stop lying to me." 

Aramis shook his head, looking for all the world like a cornered animal. Athos refused to let the feeling of cruelty disturb his focus. 

"Tell me, Aramis, tell me now." His shoulders straightened, his eyes piercing. 

Aramis' hands tightened where they gripped his elbows, fingers digging into the skin. Athos tried not to look at them. He focused on the anger, the concern, the potential of betrayal. 

Aramis took a breath. "It's - It's not that big of a - " he trailed off, his voice failing him. 

"Porthos knows." Athos snapped, accusing. "What does Porthos know about this campaign that I can't be told?" 

"Porthos already knew." Aramis sighed, sounding numb. "He was there." 

It took Aramis a moment to collect himself. Athos waited, feeling like a compressed spring about to explode. 

"Ten years ago," Aramis began, "Anne was a TA for one of our classes. She was about - twenty-nine, a graduate student. Porthos and I were in the final year of our undergrad." 

Athos waited. 

"She was already married to Louis," Aramis explained, "but they were having a hard time - between her teaching hours, his business, it was just...a lot. And they'd been trying to have kids, and failing, and fighting about it. They fought quite a bit. Anne was feeling - unappreciated. They both made...some mistakes, but Anne and I - "  

With a sinking, horrified feeling, Athos could guess what was coming. "You had an affair." 

Aramis nodded. "It only lasted a semester. Louis found out. We hadn't been...subtle. I loved her, Athos, dearly. She loved me. We knew we were being idiots, but Louis had had his own indescretions, and...we did it anyway."

Athos was frozen. Aramis forged on. "We all talked. They had needed to talk, anyway, about what they both were doing. About taking out all their stress and their frustration on each other. They do love each other, they truly do. They discussed all their problems, they made some compromises. What Anne and I - it was a symptom of a disease, not real in its own right. She was never going to leave him." 

"But it happened." Athos said, his voice flat. "You slept together, and somewhere out there, someone knows." 

"Yes." Aramis told the ground, his voice choked-off and quiet. 

"Christ." Athos had to step back, to walk away. The adrenaline of the revelation had almost eliminated his earlier buzz, but his knees still shook. 

He couldn't look at Aramis for a moment. To be fair, though, Aramis couldn't seem to look up from the ground. 

The street suddenly seemed too loud, the cars and passerby too close, the yellow sodium light from the street lamps was to bright. Air roared against Athos' ears. His clothing seemed to scrape against his skin in places of contact; in other places, it clung to him, clammy with sweat. His heart wasn't in his throat, but his palms and ears pounded with his racing pulse. 

"I can't believe this." His voice was rough. 

Aramis drew a shaky breath. "Athos, it's not - We could never have known then - " 

Athos whirled on him. eyes wide and fierce. "You took the job. Didn't you? You damn well knew when you took the job. Anne knew. Louis knew. For god's sake, Porthos knew! You knew what you were doing when you said yes to this!" 

Aramis' voice failed him again. He looked up finally, meeting Athos' wild eyes. He nodded. 

Athos paced for a moment, thinking hard. He whirled back on Aramis again, less crazed this time, but only just. "Are you having an affair with her now?" 

His voice was still hard, but gentler at the edges - it wasn't something he could see happening. Aramis may be stupid, but he wasn't that stupid.

It was Aramis' turn to look fierce, his jaw set and eyes flashing. "No. What kind of idiots do you think we are? Who do you think  _Anne_ is?" 

Athos didn't answer. 

Aramis ran his hands through his hair, tugging on his curls restlessly. "We were just stupid kids. It was over a decade ago. It's - It doesn't mean anything, anymore." 

Athos's shoulders sagged, but still he stared at Aramis. "She is running for the Presidency of the United States, and you are her senior staff." 

Aramis nodded, his face grim. "I know. And should anything happen - should this come to light - I'll take full responsibility. Let it fall to me. But they haven't found anything yet - " 

"Yet." Athos interrupted, his jaw clenched tight. "No, they haven't yet." 

The two men stared at each other in tense silence for a moment. 

"Who else knows?" Athos cleared his throat. He needed to think now, not of betrayal - not that he had any right to feel betrayed - but of damage control. 

"You. Porthos. Me and Anne and Louis. That's all on the campaign." Aramis looked away, his hands shaking as they dropped to his sides. "I swear, we've been careful." 

Athos nodded slowly. "This is not done yet, Aramis. This will have consequences." 

Aramis clenched his hands tightly into fists for a moment, before all the fight drained back out of him. "I know. But it won't be tonight." 

Athos looked at him, and sighed. "No, not tonight." 

"Come back in, Athos," Aramis rubbed his face. "I'm going to bet we both need a stiff drink." 

Athos couldn't argue with that, and followed Aramis back through the door into the bar. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i like to make all the things happen at once idek


	12. the room where it happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long - i have been slightly politically burnt out, considering the events of this year's elections. this may be the last chapter for a while, at the very least probably until after the current US election (pls remember me fondly if i have to move countries) 
> 
> Anyway, it's not the worst stopping point, at least for a while.

>  "There are three opportunities that you have during a general election campaign where you can substantially move the needle of public opinion. One, is your convention speech; two, are the base; three, is the selection of your vice president." Mark McKinnon

Porthos would always remember this room, on this night. The air outside was hot, the sky was clear, and 82% of the California precincts were reporting in with a landslide victory for Congresswoman Anne Bourbon. He was standing shoulder to shoulder with Aramis and the rest of the core staff - Athos on his left, Constance beside him, and Alice hovering trying to shove water, coffee, or  "Anything of substance, damn you all," into their hands. Their eyes were fixed on the television, hardly moving, hardly breathing. This was it. The room around them was a hive of celebration and excitement, all the rest of the staff already claiming victory. Over five hundred delegates on the line, and it was almost certain that the majority of them were theirs. 

"They're calling it." Athos said, his voice sharp. 

The TV - tuned to CNN after a lively debate about which news source was the least partisan (the answer being none of them, really) - announced the results in that bland everyman accent that Porthos had never considered beautiful before this moment. 

"Anne Bourbon takes California at just over eighty percent, cementing her large lead over Senator Richelieu of Maine -" 

Porthos roared and lifted Aramis into the air while the other man laughed. The room became even noisier as everyone started to scream and cheer, and was someone crying? Porthos' face was crushed against Aramis' collarbone and he couldn't see. He shouted into the other man's chest, and he could now hear almost nothing else over Aramis' whoops and hollers. He did think he could just barely hear even Athos' voice raised among the cacophony of sound. He spun Aramis around for a moment, loathe to let go, giving in only when he realized that he was a bit dizzy and Aramis was a bit heavy. The noise of the room had eased into a low murmur of joy, and he loosened his grip to let Aramis slide to his feet. He beamed at his friend, and Aramis smiled back, wide and happy and genuine. 

"What are you all screaming for?" Anne's amused voice cut through the room. The noise level ratcheted up again as everyone turned to her, beaming, but Treville was the one who stepped forward. His voice rang out above the din of the room. 

"You'd better pick your running mate, Congresswoman." His face was flushed and his eyes light, looking as pleased and proud of every one of them as if they were his own children.

Anne smiled back at him, and Porthos decided that if he did nothing else good in his life, he'd like to remember that snapshot of that room forever. 

Suddenly, everyone seemed to remember what had happened, and they pressed in on each other again, food and drink passing from hand to hand as they tried to draw Anne in. Everyone embraced everyone else, hugs flying around the room as people jumped up and down in excitement. 

The core staff, on the other hand, seemed to have realized the work that lay ahead. Constance started to shuffle through all her prepared statements like a woman possessed. Athos and Aramis, who seemed to have completely repaired at least their working relationship, bent forehead to forehead over a sheaf of papers, bickering at a blazing pace. Anne was trying to pluck it out of their fingers as they argued - it was her acceptance speech, and she needed it - but they weren't letting it go without a few last adjustments. 

Porthos bumped elbows with Treville, his eyebrows rising. Treville grinned back at him, a wry twist to his lips. "You look like you've got a bee in your bonnet, Porthos." 

"We got any ideas on that VP, sir?" Porthos had a sneaking suspicion not - the last few months had felt like a fever dream. 

Treville sighed, still looking pleased even through the stress lines starting to crinkle around his eyes again. "We've tossed a couple ideas around, recently." 

"You don't sound real sure, sir." Porthos cocked his head, curiosity and suspicion warring. He liked his mentor forthright. 

"She wasn't too thrilled by my favorite idea." Treville admitted. 

Porthos chuckled. "Anne can be hard-headed. You usually talk her 'round, though." 

Treville's brow furrowed. "I hope you're right. I fear that time might be of the essence here." 

The six of them - Aramis, Athos, Constance, Anne, Treville, and himself - stepped out of the room and into the hall when Treville beckoned. Anne had successfully retrieved her speech from the other two, who still seemed to be arguing, and was flipping through it idly. 

"Anne," Treville prompted her. "We're going to need to make that decision."

Anne glanced up at him, her eyes hard. "I know what you'd like me to decide, John." 

Porthos watched them intently, tuning out Aramis and Athos. Constance looked between Anne and Treville, her brows drawn together in concern. Whatever they decided, if they decided it now, it would be her job to spin it in the next ten minutes. 

The noise from the room inside was muffled through the thick door, and the Secret Service outside the door was carefully ignoring the pack of people gathered by them. Treville's voice cut through the quiet noise of Aramis and Athos' unending fight. 

"Armand Richelieu is the strongest choice we have." 

Athos and Aramis shut up immediately. They both turned to stare at Treville. So did Porthos and Constance - Anne was the only one without a gobsmacked look on her face. 

"I'm sorry, you mean the man we just humiliated on national television?" Constance asked, her voice incredulous. "The one we've been outright fighting for the last nine months? The one who called the Congresswoman a nagging fishwife last Tuesday." 

Anne said nothing, her face like stone. 

"Look, boss, you've known the guy a long time I know - " Porthos started, grumbling. "But he's an asshole." 

Athos' shock faded the fastest. "He may be a cad, but he's an experienced one." 

"You can't be serious." Aramis wrinkled his nose. "He's got different politics on half a dozen issues, you can barely call him a progressive, and hell the best thing you can say about the bastard is that he's not a damn Republican." 

"He balances us out." Treville sighed. "It'll clear up the bad blood about party division and inexperience. He's a Washington veteran. He knows how to play this game, and the establishment Democrats love him." 

Porthos looked at the others. Athos' face was placid, which meant hardly anything, but he thought he might see a hint of disgust in the man's pretty blue eyes - which, really, also hardly meant anything. Athos spent most of the day looking placid yet disgusted. Aramis, though, was visibly incensed. Porthos felt a rush of affection for him. Constance - she had a thoughtful look on her face. Porthos met her eyes, frowning, and she dipped her head to the side and pulled a face as if to say  _the man has a point._

Porthos set his jaw. He wasn't sure he wanted to admit that Treville was right, even if Constance did. He'd been fostering a festering dislike of the man ever since he'd left his campaign.

"He's not what we're about." Porthos growled, more to the ground than to the rest of the group. 

"Porthos," Anne said fondly, gently, "we're going to have to fucking deal." 

He blinked, looking up at her. He let out a soft, surprised little chuckle. "Yes, ma'am."  How could he argue with that? 

Aramis heaved a sigh. "Well, I suppose I don't have to like it." 

Treville nodded, glancing at the other two to see if they were going to protest before he continued on. "We'd better talk to him tonight. Before anyone makes any concession speeches or starts to get resentful." 

"Let's get it done." Anne squared her shoulders. "John and I will go; the rest of you have quite a bit of work to do." 

"But the speech - " Aramis began.

"I won't be able to give it until at least tomorrow." Anne soothed him. "You can rework it to your heart's content after the man says yes." 

Aramis closed his mouth with a soft click and nodded. Athos accepted the speech back from Anne and rested his free hand in the small of Aramis' back, drawing the other man back into the room with him. They'd likely be bent over the papers all night. Constance still had reporters to speak to, and took a big breath. 

"I'll obfuscate as long as I can" She told Anne and Treville, who nodded, and then she was off down the hall to deal with her own gauntlet for the night. 

Porthos watched Anne and Treville turn, shoulder to shoulder, to head down the hall. He wondered for a moment at how small and fragile she looked next to the old soldier - but her head was high, her back was straight, and he bet he'd never seen someone stronger. 

\---

Treville hoped that he was making the right decision. He hoped that Armand agreed. He hadn't mentioned a word to the other man. He hadn't wanted to jinx Anne's chances; He also hadn't wanted to talk to Richeleiu about what came at the end of this journey. They had never said the words "President" or "Vice President" while at their leisure. He took a deep breath, all too aware of Anne's watchful presence, and knocked at Armand's green room door. 

It was opened by a Secret Service officer. Most of Armand's staff seemed to have cleared out - the air still felt thick and tense, and Treville was willing to bet that Armand had shouted them all out of the room only moments ago. He was a poor loser, unfortunately, and Treville was very glad he wasn't one of the man's poor interns. 

The only one John could still see hanging around besides the Secret Service detail was Rochefort. The sly blond was lurking in the shadows by the sideboard, his cold eyes fixed on the doorway where Anne and Treville stood. Armand strode across the room, stopping ten feet from them, his eyes like crackling fire. 

"I assume you seek my concession." He hissed, sour and incensed. 

"We have a proposition." Anne replied coolly, meeting those eyes without fear. 

The senator straightened slowly. Treville could see him gathering his bruised dignity around him like a cloak. If he got too high up on his honor, he'd never hear sense. 

"Hear us out, Armand." John coaxed. 

"I've no desire to give in to you, John. Or to Congresswoman Bourbon." Armand's eyes narrowed. "If you intend me to go quietly into the night, you will be disappointed." 

"We aren't asking you to disappear, Senator." Anne's jaw was set and grim. 

"What _have_ you come here for, then, I wonder?" Rochefort purred from his dark corner. 

Anne glanced at him, her face hard and uninterested, only for a moment. Her eyes fixed back on Richelieu. "I'd like for you to run as my Vice President." She told him, ignoring Rochefort entirely. 

Suddenly she had Armand's undivided, curious attention. He stood with his mouth open in surprise for just a second before snapping it shut again. He turned on his heel, pacing the room slowly. Treville could feel beads of sweat rolling down his spine. He couldn't predict what Armand would do next, not now. 

"You can't be serious." Rochefort spoke again, sounding vicious and cruel. "We'll fight you to the convention and after, if we must!" 

John would bet the slimy little man hadn't planned for this. He was sure Rochefort had been angling to be the President's chief of staff - subordinate to the Head of State only. He wasn't sad to burst _that_ bubble.

"You'll balance out our campaign." Anne still spoke only to Armand. "We'll have a united party again, and we can firmly shut out the right-wing windbags." Treville smirked as Rochefort stiffened, the other man being a consummate windbag himself. 

"Senator, you can't be considering - " 

Richelieu held up a hand, cutting his toady off smartly. He looked from Anne's cold, confident face, to Treville. John hoped he didn't look as tense and nervous as he felt. 

"It's not what I came here for." Armand said slowly, carefully. 

"No, it's not." Anne agreed. "It's a hell of a step down from the Presidency. But it's only one step." 

"Sir, do not agree to this." Rochefort spat out. 

"Armand," Treville murmured, looking directly into the other man's eyes, "think of what you could do. What we could do." 

"It's an insult, that's what it is." Rochefort stepped out of the shadows, his face ugly with badly-disguised fury. 

"One of the highest offices in the country, an insult?" Richelieu said, his voice mild. "Many a great man would disagree." 

"You cannot be serious." Rochefort look startled. 

"We need an answer soon, Senator." Anne prompted him. 

Armand paced the room again, maddeningly slow. He loved to make people sweat, whether they were friend or enemy. It drove John to distraction sometimes - but this time it was making Rochefort visibly twitch, so he dug his heels in and decided to bear it. Anything that made that slimeball uncomfortable was good in his book. 

What would he do if Armand said yes? He hadn't thought through this. It'd be rough adjusting for everyone on the campaign. It would restructure how they had to think of the Presidency. And all of that paled in comparison to John's concern over what it would mean between them - and what would happen if their secret got out. 

What would he do if Armand said yes? What would the campaign do if Richelieu said no?

"Oh for Christ's sake, Senator." Rochefort snapped. 

"When a man is to decide the fate of the free world, he takes his time." Armand murmured, his voice deceptively gentle and his eyes like flint. 

Rochefort had nothing more to say. His master's choice would be as much a surprise to him as to the others, now. John felt a sharp, hot flare of hope inside his chest.

He might say yes. What if he said yes?

What happened if he said yes? 

"Armand," Anne's voice was polite, gentle, more of a reminder of their tight schedule than Rochefort's demands for an answer. 

"I'll do it," he said finally, turning to lock eyes with her. "I would be happy to." 

John sagged in relief while Anne drew herself up. Her back ramrod straight, she nodded, her bearing queenly. "Glad to have you aboard, Senator." 

She held out her hand. He had to cross the suite to shake it. John was struck by the sudden idea that he was witnessing something monumental. This moment was significant, or it would be. In a year, or four, maybe eight - it may take more than that for people to understand how. God, he hoped the significance was good. 

Rochefort was now spitting mad in his little corner. John wanted to laugh at how hopeless his cause was now - woe betide anyone who tried to make Armand change his mind once he'd settled on a course of action. He'd just have to stew.

"I'm certain you have celebrating to do, Ms. Bourbon. As do I, I see. We'll speak again after our announcements are made." Armand nodded to her, his voice once more gracious and level. 

Anne nodded back, genteel, "I look forward to it, Senator." 

No one at all looked to Rochefort now; in fifteen short minutes, he'd been made irrelevant. 

As they turned to go, Armand caught John's eye. John was well practiced at keeping a straight face, but the quirk of Armand's eyebrow and the twist of his lips was testing his ability to hide a smile. He followed Anne out, itching under the weight of Armand's challenging gaze. 

What came next? John wondered again. What would they do now? 

"All right," Anne said brightly, looking up at him with a soft smile on her face. "What's next?" 

**Author's Note:**

> this is happening i guess? expect many recognizable west wing moments.


End file.
